


Wild and Free

by Tofu_is_amazing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Motorcycles, Road Trips, Shotgunning, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-20 03:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofu_is_amazing/pseuds/Tofu_is_amazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lose their mother to a smoldering candle, and their father to an all-consuming grief. Sam and Dean grow up with their “uncle” Bobby, fixing cars and motorcycles in his salvage yard, and developing a passion for bikes along the way.</p><p>So when Sam asks if Dean wants to go on a roadtrip, Dean doesn’t think about it twice. He says yes, packs a bag, fixes it to the back of his motorcycle, and they leave. Their bikes carry them across the States, from South Dakota to California, and along the road they meet ephemeral friends and create life-long memories. Their trip takes them away but brings them closer together, the pieces finally all coming together and closing the last gap between their names.</p><p>It’s a story of bikers, of bar brawls, of bloody knuckles and razor sharp smirks. It’s junk food, lukewarm beer, and smoke exchanged from one set of lungs to the other. It’s stargazing, careful touches and petal soft whispers. It’s the road, infinite, forever. It’s the story of two boys being young, wild, and most of all, free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild and Free

**Author's Note:**

> Where to start? I have many people to thank, without whom this fic would not exist. 
> 
> I would like to thank Wendy over at the [spn-j2-bigbang](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/) for running this challenge and doing such an amazing job. 
> 
> Thank you to the lovely Stormbrite, who created the art for this fic. It was great exchanging ideas and going back and forth with you, thank you! Guys, don't forget to check her art masterpost on [LiveJournal](http://stormbrite.livejournal.com/21539.html) or [Ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7345264). 
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful [Nishka](http://sebastiantrash.tumblr.com) for betaing this fic and agreeing to getting paid in kinder and my eternal love and devotion. I am a messy writer and this fic would be a disaster if she hadn't worked on it. Thank you a million times. I rewrote some passages of this story after Nishka worked on it, so all the remaining mistakes are mine.  
> Thank you [Karri](http://buticancarryyou.tumblr.com) for pushing me to write this. It started as a small headcanon, biker boys with tattoos, and now it's a full fic. It wouldn't exist without you mémé.

_We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore,_

_except to make our lives into a work of art._

_Live fast. Die young. Be wild. And have fun._

_Lana Del Rey_

 

 

_There is a soft wave of miracle in the way the moon rises when the sun goes down. She delicately plucks his golden wings to make them hers, and drapes herself in a coat of black. She brings out the night like winter brings the snow, taking the light of the world to cover it with soothing darkness. One after the other, she kisses people's eyelids and whispers sweet nothings in their ears. She's a mother for all secrets, for all mysteries and unshed tears. Moon. I told her about you so many times, I'm surprised she doesn't use the stardust to write your name in shiny letters across the sky._

~

They don't really have a reason for it, just a craving, an unknown hunger inside their bellies that makes their stomachs churn and scream for wilderness and open spaces. It chews on their most fragile ribs, and settles on their tongues when they least think about it.

“What do you wanna do?”, “Let’s take off for the weekend”, “Bet you can’t race me to Aberdeen”.

It’s a rebellion against gravity, a ‘screw you’ to the horizon and the drifting clouds. It's Sam's idea at first, because there is an itch under his skin that feels like sand scraping his bones. _Brains of the family_ , Dean likes to say and worse, likes to think. Sam with ideas always greater than them, always reaching for more more more. A man bigger than life for the entire world, a baby barely out of dirty diapers to Dean. Toothless grin and big butterfly eyes, laughter and sticky fingers. Sammy. Never tall enough.

It doesn't start with an explosion, with clouds gathering in the sky and lightning striking the earth. It starts with a _yes_.

Sam asks Dean if he's up for a road trip, and Dean says yes. Simple as that. Three letters and miles of open road just for them. All the roads of this world and then more, all of it leading to something Dean could never really pinpoint with certitude. The answer’s always out of reach, maybe there simply isn't one, or maybe it’s been by his side for the last twenty five years. A pet ghost that likes to play with the short hair at the base of his neck when Dean looks at his brother. It doesn’t really matter.

It's not something they have to talk about, nor something they have to prepare. People going on vacations--book hotels, flights, and make plans on where to go and what to see. It’s carefully jotted down on notebooks that will collect dust once the trip is over, inked words forgotten as soon as they don’t look essential anymore.

Sam and Dean don’t need that kind of reassurance. They don't have to pack suitcases and warn everyone. They just go. It's always been like this. Impulse has taken care of them like they were its sons, cherishing them and loving them like a mother. And they loved it right back, listening to its sweet voice like dutiful boys ready to cause mayhem. They walk in each other's footsteps, and the future is only the next minute. They don't need to make plans, to pin dates into the cloth of time, and count the days. Their only agenda is the road. It always has been.

In the official files and papers that are kept in locked up drawers that nobody ever cares enough about to open, their life is a tragic story. They're orphans, and the word alone is enough to send countless pitiful gazes their way. It's an ugly ghost that puts shadows around them, and tastes like tears and loneliness.

They lost their mother to a smoldering candle. Life sometimes plays those kind of tricks. It took only a flickering candle, some slowly dripping wax, and an old persian carpet. The unforgiving flames swallowed the whole house, a lovingly constructed memory and in their hunger, they devoured Mary Winchester too.

_“Say goodnight to your brother okay?”_

_“Goodnight Sammy!”_

Oranges and yellows illuminated the sky of that summer night, twenty five years ago, vivid colors twirling together and sending sparks into the night, like Death’s own little masterpiece. But when Sam and Dean think about that day, the only color they see is black. They don't remember it clearly, Sam was six months old and Dean only four years older, but the incident left a deep ache in their chests. The dying embers found their way beneath their skin, dripped down their throats like honey, and burnt a piece of their hearts. They remember heat and fear, the terror twisting their insides as their mom was taken away from them. They remember the smell, indescribable and yet so unique, so revulsing.

Dean held his baby brother against him, felt Sam's huge eyes blinking at him from where he was bundled against his chest, but he couldn't look away from his house.

He could almost hear them, Sam’s questions, still a baby but already asking why, _why are we awake? Why are you outside without your sneakers? The grass is wet and cold, you’re gonna catch a cold. Why is there orange on your face? Why won’t you look at me?_

And Dean couldn’t do anything but watch as torrents of heat destroyed every single remnant of his life, his tongue working on its own.

“It’s okay Sammy, I got you.” It wasn’t an answer, and it was all Dean could give.

He watched, helpless, as inch by inch, the fire took away his home, and in its greediness didn't even leave him something to mourn. Sam was clinging to Dean's pajama shirt, tugging to get Dean's attention, feeling the tension in his brother's body and not understanding why the night was so bright. He wiggled his body in the blanket he was wrapped in, tried to escape his warm cocoon to get closer to Dean, unconsciously reaching for the safety of his brother's skin.

Dean's eyes were glued to the flames, and Sam was watching them reflected on his brother's face, painting on the boy's face a memory that would sink into the skin and hide between Dean's bones for the rest of his life, dark and cutting.

Standing in the wet grass, little boy’s toes frozen, and clutching Sam to his chest, Dean waited for their mom and dad to come out of the house, feeling dread settle all over his body with each passing second. Relief wasn't a word strong enough to explain what Dean felt when his father ran through the curtain of flames. Dread wasn't enough either, when he realized John was running alone. He felt a little fist bump his chin and looked down to find Sam gazing at him, eyes wide open and mouth curling into a small smile now that Dean's eyes were on him. Toothless grin, wide, happy.

_It’s okay Dean, I got you._

And Dean smiled back, before he started to cry.

Days are longer when you don’t have a mom anymore. Dean never said it, but there were definitely hours that had been added to the days since the fire. Something quiet but heavy, that Dean could not explain, could only feel somewhere between his little boy’s lungs. He couldn’t talk, and if Sammy was babbling enough for both of them, Dean still felt the weight of unknown words on his tongue. How do you say, “Can mom come back now?”, with the right words--when you already know she is not going to?

It took a while, finding his place in the world. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, gravitating around a baby brother who thankfully did not know what tragedy tasted like. And when he thought he was gonna be able to be alright, so long as Sammy was still looking at him like he was a superhero, dad would make him a PB&J sandwich without taking off the crust, small smile, smaller touches, and Dean would remember, painfully, that things were never going to be alright ever again.

“Superheroes aren’t real, Sammy.”

Sam still smiled. _It’s okay Dean, I got you._

And Dean thought that maybe, maybe he was wrong.

If Mary died with the fire, John didn't survive its sticky ashes. They settled on his pale skin like fresh snow, claiming the joyful light in his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth. They fell like stardust in his hair and left white streaks behind, impossible to erase and to forget. He paled and stopped sleeping, left the days sharpen his bones and dry the tears that trembled at the tip of his eyelashes for so long after the fire. The burnt hole left in his ribcage by the unforgiving flames couldn't be filled, not by kind words, not by soft touches, not by meaningless days. Not by loving little boys.

He tried to raise his sons with love, until the day he couldn't stand to see his wife's ghost hiding in their faces anymore. And so he left. Six months after the love of his life was taken away from him. Six months after he started to drive aimlessly through the country in his black Chevy Impala, with his sons curled around each other in the backseat. Six months of motel rooms and jobs that paid for just the essential, and a couple of ice creams when the days had soft edges.

John cared about his boys more than anything in the world, found joy in their loving eyes and their little fingers clinging to his big hands. But he stopped caring about his own life at some point, enough to realize he was no good to his sons the way he was. He would have traded his life for theirs ten times over, but it didn’t mean anything when he didn’t value his own life anymore. When Sam took his wobbly first steps toward Dean, John cried. Sam fell into his brother's arms and they both giggled, happiness filling a room empty of warmth, and John cried. He then drove to South Dakota, and dropped his boys at Bobby Singer's house. He hugged them close, as if a pat on the back and a kiss on their cheeks was going to be enough to make up for the hole he was about to dig in their chests, and he left.

~

The story after that is one of two dangerously clever boys.

The older one, Dean, gets into fights at school, blue jeans torn open and blood on his knees but he always gets out of them with barely a scratch. He’s quiet when he means trouble and loud when he laughs. He’s the kind of boy who doesn’t make up lies about the bruises he has the affront to sport with elegance. He oozes confidence and makes students – and teachers – nervous around him. There is just something about him, a secret beneath the skin that everyone wants to be let in on, but no one dares to ask about. They're afraid of him and they're fascinated. He's a boy who will hold a woman's hand with delicacy, when the skin on his knuckles is still busted open and dripping blood. Dean Winchester doesn't care about anything or anyone beside his brother, doesn't have enough space inside his body for anything that isn't Sam.

Dean never cared much about equations or Stalin, he skipped more classes than he attended, and yet he graduated from high school like he had been bored out of his mind the whole time. He did it with a smirk on his lips and with his eyes always searching for his brother's in the hallways.

People look at his grass-green eyes always shining with mirth, stare at his strong jawline, the five o'clock shadow and the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks like stardust. They look at the slope of his spine, the legs, slightly bowed but oh so mesmerizing. They try to see past the almost unnatural beauty of the boy, past lips that always look like someone spent hours kissing them, past eyelashes too long to be anything but _pretty_. They keep looking when they think Dean doesn't see them, glances that would be subtle if Dean didn’t feel every single flick of eye sent his way in half a second. They search his body for the answer to the million dollars question. _Who are you?_

But they don't stare in the right direction. They never follow Dean's hunger-filled gazes, don't bother to look past his body. They see his feet but don't follow his footsteps, stare at his razor-sharp smiles but don't see what makes those full lips curl upward. Like moths flying blindly around a streetlight, they try to map his skin, to drink the sight of his dangerous delicacy, and read on his freckles his most precious secrets. But the best way to understand Dean is to look at Sam.

Sam is different in his similarity to his brother. He's less... overwhelming. He studies more carefully, cares about his grades, and actually makes friends within his classmates. But it doesn't go any further. Like his brother, he gets into fights, and like his brother, he wins them without hurting himself. His violence is more disciplined, but just as efficient.

Sam is soft for the right eyes only. He allows people near him when they have been deemed worthy of his dimpled smiles and eager eyes. He grows taller each year, becomes taller than his brother when he turns seventeen his smiles get bigger, while Dean’s eyes narrow.

He skips some of his classes, and never mentions any dreams of scholarships, college, papers and dorms. It's disarming, because Sam's teachers push him to do better, they see in him a potential that they didn't bother to look for in Dean, and enjoin him to have bigger dreams. They never once ask him what he wants.

When his biology teacher, kind concerned voice, tells him he doesn't have to follow in his brother's footsteps, Sam just takes off his left shoe and sock, shows him his ankle where the black ink gently curls around the bone, the initials _D.W_ daring anyone to ask what they stand for _,_ and answers just as kindly:

“I'll always follow my brother”.

He dares anyone to tell him what to do, lets his hair grow longer when a classmate tells him he looks like a girl, and if the same boy ends up with a broken nose the next day, no one says anything. Sam could never, could he? He looks like he always does, charming, beautiful. There are dimples framing his smile, an ocean of colors in his eyes, bottled up sunflowers reflecting kindness, and moles on his skin like the sun itself couldn't stop kissing every inch of his body. He looks like an angel, and he doesn't have bruises on his knuckles. Dean does.

When they grow up, the story in black and white written in files and reports speaks about boys getting into bar brawls, driving too fast down back roads, and getting caught with enamoured girls for public indecency. Pants around their ankles, twinkles in their eyes. It's a trail of fines, penalties, warnings, and suspiciously closed cases. It's a story of thieves and bad boys, who behave curiously and are always close, too close.

The real story though, is not written on paper. It smells of oil and sounds like the rumble of engines. It sends shivers down the spine, like a tattoo gun’s needle touching the skin. They were born from fire and heartbreak. They're not orphans.

_Bobby gives Dean a crumpled ten, annoyed frown on his face while Sam is jumping on the worn-out couch, like he has been for the past twenty minutes, Dean joining him every once in a while._

_“Just, go get an ice-cream or something.”_

_Dean snatches the bill from Bobby’s fingers, delighted smile on his face and he runs in the living room, tackling Sam who yells dramatically as he falls on the couch and gets trapped under Dean._

_“Lemme go, douchenozzle!”_

_“Fine I’ll have the ice cream just for me then!”_

_“What? Ice cream? BOBBYYYYYYYYYY is it true can we go?”_

_Bobby sighs and just wishes that his house could be silent for two seconds, just two little seconds, he doesn’t ask for much._

_“Yes Sam, it’s true, now get your butt out of here”_

_“WOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”_

_Sam’s yell could make Bobby’s ear drums bleed but he can’t help a chuckle from tumbling from his lips._

Sam and Dean think of their childhood as dried flowers abandoned behind an open window. The colors faded but the beauty is still there, and the smell of memories never really vanished.

It's soft and light, like a silky scarf curling around their necks and warming their chests. They remember growing up without their dad and their mom, but with each other. Dean remembers holding Sam's tiny hand to cross the street, and even when they stand apart, it feels like Sam's palm is still in his. They're as close as their soft skins allow them to be, two halves of the same adventurous heart, indestructible and beating wildly. They saw each other living day after day, stood side by side always, and never felt the need to be apart.

They grew up sharing beds to fight a sticky loneliness and to forget they would never get another good night kiss on the forehead. They hid under worn down blankets and thin cotton sheets to find a home in each other, touching each other's skins because the pounding of the other's heart was the only lullaby they could listen to. Bobby never tried to pry them apart, never dared after a few times when Sam was old enough to have his own room and his own bed. Unfortunately, Sam never wanted it. If he left Sam in his room in the evening, he found him in Dean's the next morning.

He told them, these little boys he loves like his sons, that they were too old for sharing a bed and still have meaningless touches. He guiltily used the tone he knew Sam wouldn't argue with. He watched Sam's face fall and told himself it was better this way. He didn't pay attention to the way Dean's eyes had narrowed.

The next morning, he found Sam in his own room, but Dean also there, holding Sam between his arms, both of them soundly asleep. Bobby stopped trying after that. He let them be as close as they wanted, fighting the uneasiness he felt in his chest when he saw Sam drop a kiss on Dean's cheek at the most random times. He turned his head when Dean tugged Sam to him by his belt loops, just so he could fit his head beneath Sam's and breathe in the skin of Sam's neck. What was there to say?

Sam and Dean never stopped holding hands, never cared for murmurs and rumors. They smirked when people looked at them with disgust in their eyes, dared them, holding each other's hands, to even speak that terrible word. _Incest._ But like everything else in their lives, smoke hid the truth. They never shared a kiss in front of anyone, never got caught with their pants around their ankles and a flush on their cheeks. The only thing they ever had against them was a suspicion, and no one was brave enough to use it. There is no law against holding hands, no jail sentence for a brush of lips against the soft skin of a cheek. You can’t be punished for loving too much.

What they have between them is theirs and theirs only. They never hid out of fear, or to protect themselves. They don't have anything to hide. But the kisses they share the same way they share a bed, they're for each other's eyes only. The feeling of Sam's mouth gently prying his open, Dean wouldn't share it with anyone else. He needs Sam all to himself, skin on skin and blood on blood. They never share more, are always content with just hands and mouths. It is above love, would be laughable to see it as only lust. It's Sam and Dean, like it's always been. And that's enough.

~

Sam kicks Dean's bedroom door open and plops on his brother's bed without warning. Dean doesn’t mind, never really does, but Sam is making a habit of kicking doors open when he could just use the knob like normal people do, and at this rate Dean is going to have to say goodbye to a privacy he doesn’t really care about pretty soon. The door is making an alarming noise as it bangs against the wall, rightful indignation if a little pathetic, but Sam is already on the bed.

He's disheveled, his hair a mess tumbling in unruly brown strands on his forehead and shoulders, and he holds a map in his hands, clutching it tightly between his fingers. Dean knows just by looking at his face that Sam is so excited he might start hyperventilating in a minute. Sam is also wearing a purple short, greyhound printed on the front, and Dean doesn’t understand when Sam got that thing, and more importantly why he insists on wearing it all the time. If anything, it makes Sam looks like a little boy with a devouring passion for dogs, which is… well, sort of accurate.

The day started like every other, the summer heat slipping past Dean’s closed window and waking him up just before noon. He's been laying on his bed ever since, trying to find in himself the will to get up and put a shirt on. He's been hearing Sam doing god knows what in his room just across the corridor, for almost half an hour now, and is almost relieved to see him burst into his room.

Most days they end up sharing a bed that would be too small for two adults and is downright tiny for two guys built like Sam and Dean are. They will watch the small tv that Dean has in his room, badly written horror movies they've seen countless times, but that never fail to make them laugh, and will fall asleep to the screams of a pretty thirty year old actress pretending to be a teenager getting her legs cut off by a psycho killer.

But on some days, Sam sleeps in his room. Not because he doesn't want to share, but just because sometimes, even they have to be apart. Only a little, just a corridor separating the rooms, but it always feels like an ocean to Dean. So he can't find it in himself to be bothered by Sam's sudden intrusion, because Sam smiles, and those damn dimples make any protest die in Dean's throat. What would he say anyway? Dean's room will always be Sam's too.

“I got an idea,” Sam says, almost breathless, eyes wide and shining, and Dean can't help but smile.

_Here we go._

“Shoot,” he answers, and Sam has already started to spread the map on Dean's bed. The paper is so old it's soft, and the map has been folded and unfolded so many times the colors at the folds faded, erasing cities and rivers, digging holes in the paper instead. There are notes written carelessly between the States, Sam's messy scrawl following a line he drew all across the map. Dean doesn't want to know how many times Sam looked at it, thinking about roads and making plans.

“So,” Sam starts before he points to Sioux Falls. “We are here...” Sam's fingers are curled in a fist except for his index that is crushing their current location under its weight.

It's almost a childish gesture, and Dean gets the sudden overwhelming urge to ask Sam how his day at school was, “...and I thought maybe we could go...” and Sam's finger starts to move towards the western coast, following the line he drew and crossing Wyoming, Utah, Nevada to finally reach California and settle somewhere between Los Angeles and San Francisco, “...here”.

Dean follows the road his brother maps, sees the landscapes that names like Cheyenne, Salt Lake City or Las Vegas bring to his mind and he feels hunger twisting his stomach. He imagines the road, always the road, taking him and Sam anywhere they want. He feels the wind blowing in his face, almost sighs at the relief of the caress of the breeze on his forearms. He sees the mountains, permanent background that never seems to get closer, and the endless desert. He sees the ocean, the wild blue beast they've never seen, and his heart swells. Sam is babbling about his plan, about provisions and money, but he already knows they're going.

“And I saw there’s this little camping site just there, where you can make a bonfire and apparently you can hear coyotes at night and…”

Dean’s eyes settle on Sam's finger, still pointing at the Californian coast, and he follows the curve of Sam's index, drinks in the sight of Sam's hand and follows the dark lines of Sam's tattoo where they start to spread on his arm. He could trace the fox's body with his eyes closed, knows exactly where the dark lines cross and turn, twist and dig into his brother's skin. He knows the tail goes from Sam's wrist to the inside of his elbow, curling like a snake around his arm, before the fox's body spreads on Sam's upper arm, back and head hidden by Sam's hideous shirt. Its head rests on his shoulder, turned towards his throat. Dean follows the lines he can't see because of Sam's shirt and smiles when he catches a glimpse of the fox's nose at the collar of his brother's shirt.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Dean shakes his head and looks up to find Sam watching him with raised eyebrows, mouth pinched tight, the first sign that Sam is almost ready to be annoyed. Almost.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean nods, and Sam's mouth open slightly.

“Ok?, like, ok?”

Dean sits up on his bed and moves his body until he's sitting right next to his brother, their thighs touching. He puts his finger just next to Sam's on the map, and turns his head to look at him when he answers.

“Yeah. Like ok.”

Sam's grin is making the summer heat almost unbearable, but it's worth it.

Dean doesn't even go down to get breakfast before he starts packing. His room is an organized chaos, clothes lying on the floor, dirty socks with holes in them and boxers in no better shape, decade old shirts with grease on them and empty beer cans. Books and magazines lay open at the foot of his bed, pages half ripped, and Dean pushes them under the bed with his foot. You can barely see the color of the floor and yet Dean doesn't own much. He takes the few clean clothes he still has and dumps them in a duffel bag he retrieves from his small closet. Some of those are Sam's, but it doesn't matter. One of them will wear them.

He adds a bag of weed he finds under a shirt on the floor, the silver knife with his initials engraved in it Bobby gave him when he turned sixteen, and a stack of tens and twenties he earned from little jobs here and there. From the other side of the hall, he can hear Sam packing in his own room. They don't even have an itinerary in mind, but it doesn't matter. They have the road, they have each other, this is all Dean cares about.

When John left them in their “uncle” Bobby's junkyard, he left his car behind too, and drove away in one of Bobby's old red Cheyenne. Sam and Dean grew up learning how to fix an engine, how to recognize from the sound of it what was wrong with it, how to get rid of grease stuck under their fingernails. They learned how to drive in their 67 black Chevy Impala. Spent more time playing in it as they did running outside. Memories are stuck inside like a small army man in the ashtray in the backseat. There are legos in the vent, and clumsy initials carved into the wood under the leather.

At some point over the years, they started to refer to it as “her”, their only memory of their father, the only legacy of the Winchester family. A black car with creaky doors and an impressive mileage.

Bobby found Sam and Dean asleep in the backseat countless times, and it still happens sometimes. He'll walk with a coffee in his hand in his backyard, taking in all the cars he has there, some ready to go on the road again and some waiting to be dismantled. The Impala is always in perfect shape, the boys make sure of that. And some days, Bobby sees fog on the backseat windows, and he shakes his head while he shuffles closer, knowing that when he takes a peek he'll see two kids with long limbs and stubble on their cheeks sleeping curled up together on the seat like it's the comfiest bed they've ever slept on.

“Dean, d’you know where’s my paperback of The Two Towers?”, comes a yell from the other side of the corridor.

Dean guiltily glances at the floor where he can still see a corner of said-book poking from under the bed, and swears he’ll pick Sam a new one somewhere on the road. Everyone loves hobbits, won’t be that hard to find the book.

He gives another push with his foot to make sure it really disappears under the bed, and whispers a little “Sorry” under his breath.

“Nah man, haven’t seen it”, he yells back.

~

James “Jimmy” Oliver got a Honda - “shadow-aero” - for his birthday when he was still only sixteen. Jimmy wore leather jackets and a permanent smirk on his face that didn't match the almost petulant pout of his mouth that appeared whenever things didn't go his way. Jimmy had always been a “spoiled brat,” as Dean had once eloquently put it, and he used it the best he could.

The motorcycle had come as a surprise that wasn't really one, since Jimmy had almost harassed his parents day and night for it. And it wasn't a mystery to guess why he had wanted one so bad, given the way he came parading at school with it, parking just in front of Milly Alexander, self designated prom queen and a girl more beautiful than any teenager had any right to be. The bike was a deep dark red, with full fenders and chromed mufflers that shone in the daylight. The spoked wheels didn't hold promises of lightning fast speed but they made sure you looked good sitting on the seat. It was a beautiful bike, meant for long lonely rides and empty roads. It wouldn't win any competition, was probably not worth all the money Jimmy's parents had spent for it, but it was beautiful. Perfect.

That's how it all started. Because of a red bike. Because of stupid Jimmy Oliver, because of his whipped parents and because of Milly Alexander’s delicate smile. A bunch of people Sam couldn't care less about but who all together changed his and Dean's lives.

When Sam first saw him, he forgot to roll his eyes at the way Jimmy was sitting on the bike like even his ass was not good enough for it, and stopped dead in his tracks to stare. It's not like Bobby never got his hands on old motorcycles at his garage. He and Dean had worked on several bikes while Sam had looked at the both of them swearing and sweating on the engines. It was nothing new, and Sam had already ridden an old Harley with Dean, adrenaline rushing through his veins while his arms were tightly hugging Dean’s waist and the wind was playing with his hair.

But the twisting in Sam's stomach and the goose bumps that raised the hairs all over Sam's arms, that was new. Just like the sudden urge to feel the powerful engine between his legs, to hold the handlebars and let the bike take him away. Sam felt his throat tighten, suddenly almost breathless, and didn't realize his feet had taken him closer. Jimmy's rant about the “745cc V-twin engine, specially tuned for low-revving torque” didn't reach his ears, and Sam just stayed in front of the bike, transfixed.

The chrome was brand new, and Sam could see himself in its reflection. He stared at his own wide eyes and his slightly parted mouth, everything colored in dark red, and he fought the urge to just push Jimmy from the seat to take his place. Instead, he glanced at the keys Jimmy was twirling around his fingers, and tried not to snort when Jimmy said maybe he could teach Milly how to ride if she was interested.

His fingers were reaching for the bike before he could stop himself, but his hand got batted away. Jimmy was scowling at Sam, Milly completely forgotten at his side.

“Dude,” he warned, “what do you think you're doing?”

“Let me try it.”

It was courtesy more than anything that made Sam ask. He didn't think about it, didn't have a single doubt in his mind that he would ride this bike. It was just up to Jimmy whether it would be right now or this night when he would be sound asleep in his bed. Next to Sam Jimmy's face morphed as incredulity slowly turned his features into those of a fish gasping for air. The snort would have been enough but Jimmy added “Are you kidding, Winchester? It’s brand new!”

Sam saw Milly frowning from the corner of his eyes, while Jimmy seemed ready to laugh, almost as if Sam's question was so ridiculous there was no other option than to laugh it off.

“Come on man, you just offered Milly a ride, why don't you let me?” Sam pushed with an easy smile, still sensing Milly next to them, and he flashed a grin her way.

He knew she had a crush on him, too big for a teenage girl and too superficial for a grown woman. Milly was doe eyes and light pink gloss, she was padded bras and kind twinkling eyes. She was a princess who still wore Chuck Taylor’s and didn’t know yet the full power of drinking her milkshakes from straws in diners. Sam almost felt bad for leading her on, but the barely there guilt disappeared when she cut Jimmy's answer before he could open his mouth and said, “Come on Jimmy, let Sam try it, don't be such a dick”.

There was a beat of silence and then,

“Five minutes.”

Sam felt the warm rush of victory spread inside his body, and could barely wait as Jimmy slowly got off his Honda and reluctantly offered Sam the keys. He shot Sam a warning look but didn't say anything, and Sam answered with a blinding smile, dimples carving his cheeks.

“Awesome, thanks man!”

The instant he got on the bike, Sam knew he needed to have one of his own. The moment he started the engine and heard its purr, he knew Dean needed one too. The second he started to drive, he knew he would never want to put his feet on the ground again. The wind on his face felt amazing, a playful and invisible touch in his hair. It made him forget it wasn't safe to be without a helmet. He felt the bike vibrating between his legs and as he left the school's parking lot under everyone’s gaze, and started to drive faster down the street, he couldn't help but laugh happily.

He drove past stores and parks,all of them blurring together in patches of different colors, listened to the engine and pictured the bike as a magnificent beast, some wild animal just waiting to run away.

He went faster, following the road until he was out of town, feeling almost drunk on the feeling of the wind on his face. This felt like the freedom he had been looking for all his life without knowing it. He felt free, unstoppable, looked up to the sky and wondered if it would look the same way on the other side of the world. If roads could take him anywhere. It was Grace, in all its softness. It felt like coming home, and like every time the word came to Sam's mind, Dean's face flashed behind his eyes. _Dean, Dean, Dean._

Sam went back to the school feeling giddy and delirious, wishing he could keep riding the red Honda for the rest of the day but knowing he had to tell Dean, had to show him, to make him understand how this was it, the only thing missing from their constructed happy lives. He felt like running through the parking lot, yelling his brother's name as loud as he could to see if Dean's name could make the sky brighter. But he tempered his feelings, only rushed through the parking lot and pulled on the brakes hard enough to make the rear wheel lift off the ground when he parked right in front of Jimmy, who looked about ready to faint. Milly ran to Sam's side, eyeing the flush on Sam's cheeks and his hair with an appraising look.

“So how was it Sammy?!” she purred, “maybe you could take me for a ride sometimes.”

Sam sat back on the bike, taking his time killing the engine and removing the keys from the ignition.

He heard Milly's words and thought, ‘ _But Grace doesn't try to please itself.’_

He felt Dean before he saw him, his brother's piercing gaze feeling like fingers touching his skin, light as feathers but like wildfire licking Sam's body from head to toe. When Dean walked past him, probably heading back to Bobby's after he made sure Sam had made it safely to school (and wasn't that a funny thought), his eyes were dark and hooded, trailing all over the bike and Sam's body as if they made one. Sam knew exactly what he looks like, cheeks on fire and hair ever wilder than usual. His eyes were wide, delirious, and his hands were shaking a little. And Sam knew he didn't need to talk about this, wouldn't have to work to convince Dean because it was right there in his brother's eyes on him. Grace. Love. Lust.

Dean's eyes never left Sam when he spoke to Jimmy.

“Nice bike.”

Sam felt himself blush under Dean's gaze, fought the urge to grab Dean by his jacket and pull him closer, to do what he didn’t know. Not back then. He restrained himself from telling Dean to stay, to try it too, to just get on and ride. Instead he watched Dean slowly walking away, and only stopped watching him when he heard Milly clearing her throat next to him. Right. _So-how-was-it-Sammy_.

His cheeks were still flushed when he answered her, tilting his head in Dean's direction, “He's the only one who gets to call me that.”

~

Sam was sixteen that day. Nine years ago. When it all started. He never stopped thinking about bikes after that. Worked on every motorcycle that went through Bobby's junkyard to learn how to take care of an engine, how to drive, how to go faster and faster. He rode on all the roads of South Dakota, eyes never leaving the white stripes he swallowed, always reaching toward the horizon. And he did all of it with Dean by his side, learning just like him, trying just as hard. They got their own bikes when they were respectively seventeen and twenty one, courtesy of Bobby. They always rode together, with a destination in mind or not, just for the freedom of feeling the wind against their faces and the power rushing through the bikes.

After many miles and many beers, they started to hang out with a crowd of young bikers just like them, who were also craving the kind of freedom that only the road could offer. It was a natural evolution, an easy way to share their newfound passion with others. They made friends they started to see as a family, held together not by blood or name but by grease and asphalt. They started to wear similar leather cuts, found an identity that was stolen from them by unforgiving flames so many years ago, and started to make their usual gatherings at the small bar downtown, “official meetings.” It was a new kind of belonging, a brotherhood where they could rely on each other and be free, free to share the road and free to trust each other. Sam and Dean could have stayed together, just the two of them, and be perfectly content for the rest of their lives.

But this? This was even better. They found in others the same kind of lust for the road they had discovered in themselves, something they could share without an apology. They didn't have to keep it to themselves, didn't have to let it be real only under the moonlight. It was a community, where words didn't mean much but wheels wrote novels on back roads and highways. It smelled of booze and leather, pot and cigarettes shared almost every night. It sounded like the rumbles of laughs and engines.

It was easy, and soon enough Sam became president of his motor club, with Dean by his side, vice president and his eyes never leaving Sam.

~

Dean grabs the black leather cut from where it's been carefully put around a hanger on his bedroom's door. It feels so familiar on his shoulders, so his and so home, like a layer of comfort on his skin. The 'vice president' patch shines in silver letters and Dean smiles thinking about the patch that shines on Sam's own cut-off. On the back, the Impala Dean drawn so many years ago follows the road offered by the leather. The chrome of the bodywork reflects the words Dean wrote on the hood. ' _Family doesn't end with blood_.’ It's a catchphrase for all of them, this gang they built with other people they see as more than friends. People who have each other's backs, who care for each other the way family is supposed to. To Dean and Sam, it means even more, when the only family they have is each other. Maybe John died, maybe he didn't. Maybe he built a new life far from the memories he could never escape from. It doesn't really matter.

Bobby once tried to explain. To find a reason for John's actions, despite the painful reality of the cold hard truth.

“He's in God's hands now”, he had tried.

Dean had been thirteen, and his words had been louder than bullets in the living room of Bobby's house.

“He's been in God's hands the whole time.”

Family is a word that has no meaning, just like love, if it is not written into existence with gestures. Words are just words. Riding on the road with friends, swallowing miles and miles, sharing beers and laughs, this is what family is to Sam and Dean. And this is why they put the Impala on their cuts. Around the car, a silver circle, bright as the moon, frames black letters that say it all. ' _Wayward sons_ '.

When Dean comes downstairs with his duffel bag ready, Sam is already there, his bag on the small table of the kitchen. He's half buried in the fridge, offering Dean an enjoyable view of his ass, and is dumping sandwiches and snacks in his bag while Bobby looks at him, unimpressed. When he spots Dean, his attention shifts and he raises an eyebrow.

“This your idea?” he grumbles, and Dean only shrugs before reaching for the coffee pot, still hot on the counter.

It's Sam's idea but what does it matter since he agreed to it. He fills a mug and lifts it to his lips, enjoying the bitter taste coffee leaves on his tongue and the heat inside his mouth, despite how hot it's already outside. Coffee will always be the one addiction he can't get rid of. Coffee and... well. Sam gets his head out of the fridge long enough to shoot Dean a blinding smile that leaves Dean breathless and dizzy for a second, before he grins at Bobby.

“Just admit it old man, you're just a party pooper because you're gonna miss us.”

Bobby rolls his eyes way more dramatically than the situation requires, but his gaze is warm when he answers.

“You wish, boy. I'm just damn relieved I won't have to put up with your antics for a while.”

Sam laughs from where he's back inside the fridge, and Dean blows a kiss at Bobby for good measure. This, this is family too.

When Sam is done emptying the fridge and Dean has finished his mug, they walk out of the house, Bobby on their heels. The wave of heat greets them like a mother, engulfing them from head to toe in her arms, clouds of dust already settling of their sweaty skins. Above their heads the sky is an ocean of blue, not a cloud to disrupt the sea. It's a perfect day to leave. They find their bikes where they always are, side by side under the shade of Bobby's biggest oak tree. The blacks bikes look like felines resting in the shadows, taking a nap while it's still too hot to hunt.

“What am I supposed to tell your crew of fools when they ask where you two headed?” Bobby grunts.

Sam snorts.

“Tell them we went to the beach and that we'll come back in a few.”

Bobby shakes his head, “Yeah, like that's gonna explain anything at all.”

He sighs where he's standing in front of them both, gazing at one then the other and looking for all the world like he never really understood those two boys he loves as his own sons.

“Just be careful alright,” he mutters before turning to walk away.

Sam is by his side in two long strides and engulfs Bobby into one of these hugs only he has the secret of.

“Awwwwww, I’m gonna miss you too, Robert”, Sam coos like Bobby is one of these puppies Sam is so fond of.

Dean knows those hugs, is on the receiving end of them enough to know it's currently making Bobby forget to worry and be annoyed by Sam’s use of his given name. There's enough comfort and love between Sam's arms to compete with an army of said puppies, and Dean watches as Bobby awkwardly pats Sam's back and tells him to “knock it off already”. The smile on his face is not hidden deeply enough to give his words any real weight.

Sam releases Bobby and goes back to fixing his bag on his bike, while Dean gets closer and squeezes Bobby's shoulder.

“See you, old man”, he grins before snatching Bobby’s cap and putting it back backward on Bobby’s head.

“Get off my lawn, you punks”, Bobby bats Dean’s hand away, putting his cap back in place. Bobby is mumbling under his breath as he walks away, but there is no mistaking it, he's gonna miss his boys.

When Dean turns around, Sam is done fixing his bag, and is already straddling his bike. The picture never fails to leave Dean breathless. There is something sinful in the way Sam's legs embrace the shiny black metal. It's almost obscene, and yet it's natural, nothing Sam is deliberately doing. He doesn't even try, and maybe that's the worst of it all. His jeans are tight around his thighs, his black leather cut a sharp contrast with the faded purple Sam is wearing under it. He's checking the bike's control and watching his fingers make Dean dizzy. Sam's hands are meant to hold things, to grab and pull and push. His fingers are long and delicate, they look gentle and they can be, but Sam can also turn them into fists that leave the deepest bruises. There is broken bones hiding under his knuckles, but also a softness that only flowers petals hold.

Dean watches as Sam puts on his sunglasses, stares at all the bare skin his eyes can see. The white shirt Sam changed into lets Dean see the fox on his arm, black lines twirling and playing with Sam's tanned skin. There's already sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, and Dean is suddenly hungry.

“You gonna stare all day?”

The question comes with a playful smirk and Dean shakes his head. He goes to his own motorcycle, the hand that's not holding his own bag gently caressing the bike. She's his second home, right after Sam. Sometimes he thinks she really understands him, has a mind of her own and isn't a domesticated pet. She's wild and this is why he loves her so much, because just like the road, she can take him to unknown places. He likes knowing his life depends on her, enjoys the adrenaline that pumps through his veins when he feels the engine roaring. It's freedom at its finest.

He fixes his duffel bag and watches as Sam bring his helmet on his head. It's the same ritual, has been for years and Dean doesn't even bother saying anything. Sam does it with deliberate slowness, because they both know Dean is gonna act. It's unspoken but it's as sure as days follows nights. This is also maybe a bit of a dare, banter between brothers who don't know how to be alive if the other isn't. It's comforting. So Dean takes his sweet time, but he walks to Sam and bats his brother's hands away where they're clipping the helmet under his chin.

“Sam,” he sighs, and his brother doesn't try to hide his grin.

“Something wrong, big bro?”

This is something they've done countless times, and Dean doesn't remember when it started. If he ever let Sam ride without braiding his hair first. Concern makes him do it, but it's not just that, and they both know it. Sam's hair doesn't really get in his face when they ride, but it's the only excuse Dean has for what he's about to do, so he'll go with it one more time.

“You’re a jackass”, is all he says, and Sam chuckles.

He carefully removes Sam's helmet and puts it in Sam's hands where they lay in his lap. Sam's hair is messy, brown locks falling on each side of Sam's face and reaching the top of his shoulders. Dean cards through it with his hands, gently untangling the knots, and he sees Sam reclining his head a little and closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping from his parted lips. He looks at peace, and the look on his face is the reason Dean never wants to stop doing this. This is why it's so important. He threads through Sam's hair gently, enjoys how it feels in his hands. Sam's hair is soft, feels like silk between Dean's fingers. He uses the tip of them to massage Sam's scalp in the process, until his palm is cupping his skull. This is the most precious thing Dean's ever held in his hands. Sam is breathing deeply, his lips slightly open. He looks relaxed, almost asleep.

Dean is the one always having trouble to rest. He can stay up for hours, tossing and turning in his bed and chasing after sleep, until he gives up and goes in the kitchen to make himself some coffee, which probably doesn't help him relax. Sam is different. He falls asleep as soon as he closes his eyes. It's infuriating on most days, but Dean enjoys watching the moonlight on Sam's face, and can't find it in himself to be angry. He's not sure he'll ever be able to be angry at Sam for anything, if he's completely honest with himself. And now, petting Sam's hair and watching as his brother seems ready to take a nap, Dean doesn't feel anything but warmth, spreading in his entire body from a spot between his lungs.

Dean gazes from his hands in Sam's hair to Sam's mouth, half tempted to just bend down and kiss his brother. But this is not how it works. Later. After a few minutes of combing out Sam's hair, he gathers it and divides it in two. He leaves the left side fall back on his shoulder, only caring about the right side. Sam instinctively turns his head to the left, and Dean watches his brother's profile, following with his eyes the curve of Sam's nose, and the shape of his candy pink mouth. He locks his eyes on the mole that's right there on Sam's chin, and feels his hands shaking a little. He gazes at Sam's ear, and the hair he holds in his hands. This is home.

“Always letting me do all the work”, he whispers, but it sounds like he’s grateful.

He gently untangles the lasts of the knots he finds and starts to separate locks at the front of Sam's hair, just where it starts at his temple. Sam’s mouth curls into a soft smile, but his eyes stay closed and he doesn’t say anything. The strands feels like ribbons of silk, and Dean has to stop himself from just staying there holding them in his hands, one in his left, another between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, and the last between his palm and the last three fingers of his right hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll braid yours next”, Sam smiles then hisses as Dean tugs with a little more force than necessary on his hair.

But once he starts, it's the easiest thing is the world. His fingers know the melody by heart, right strand to the center, and the notes fill the air, left strand to the center. It's as easy as all the Radiohead songs Dean learned to play with his guitar because the band's one of Sam's favorites. His fingers play the song and Dean could close his eyes and still hear the music. He gathers hair to add to the right strand, and moves it again to the center. Sam hums softly as Dean does the same with the left strand, and slowly, the braid appears on the side of Sam's head, following the invisible score of this ballad. It traces the side of Sam's head, and Dean lets his fingers continue with the well-known pattern, until he reaches the nape of Sam's neck and runs out of hair to add. He finishes the braid with the three strands he has left, and gathers the end of it in his hand while he plucks a hair tie from his right wrist with his teeth.

When the braid is secured, Dean lightly tugs on it, ready for the last notes of the song to ring in the air, and he makes Sam reclining his head back. Dean only has to bend his head to put his lips on Sam's. It's a barely there kiss, but it's enough. Sam smiles against Dean's lips, and the music stops.

He lets the braid slips through his fingers and watches as Sam lifts his head, the left side of it still messy, brown locks falling haphazardly on Sam's shoulder, but on the right side, the braid goes from Sam's temple to the back of his shoulder, the end of it disappearing in the mess of Sam's hair. Sam puts his helmet back on, sunglasses firmly into place, and smirks.

“So, are we leaving or what?”

Dean's tempted to flip him off, now that the moment is gone and they're back to being regular brothers, but Sam has already turned his head, and is starting the engine of his bike.

Instead, he just thinks ‘ _I love you so fucking much sometimes I forget my own name’_ and goes to his own bike.

The summer heat has nothing on the furnace that lives in Dean's ribcage after moments like this one. It makes him wonder if it's really what this all is, just him loving his little brother. He doesn't really understand, and doesn't think he wants to know. Not now anyway. He's content with letting the fire burn. He takes his own helmet and puts it on his head, while Sam waits for him, the engine purring like a content cat, sensing it's about to get milk. Dean starts his engine, and feels the vibrations go through his thighs. It's exhilarating, and it feels as good as the first time he tried to ride. There is no getting used to it, nothing that can stop his heart to beat just a little bit faster every time he sits on the bike and starts it. Given the way Sam is smiling at him, he feels just the same.

“So, where to?”

Dean has to yell but he knows Sam understood him because he gets a blinding grin as an answer. This is it, they're going. Sam kicks off the dirt, and leaves in a cloud of dust. Dean doesn't wait, and does what he's been doing all his life. He follows Sam.

~

They ride for four hundred and four miles before they stop. It takes them a little more than six and a half hours, and they only stop once. It's not that they're in a rush, but they already know all there is to know about South Dakota and they can't wait to leave. The countryside is flat, the only hills they see far away on the horizon, and they only have fields to gaze at. They swallow the white stripes one after the other, riding side by side except when the traffic gets heavy, which is not that often. It's South Dakota, after all. So they barely stop, only for gas and a quick snack they eat at the gas station. The air is thick on the parking lot and they sit in front of each other at the small wooden picnic table.

“Melinda and Josh are probably married right now”, Sam says around a mouthful of his sandwich, mayo pooling at the corners of his mouth, and one finger tracing two names carved side by side on the table.

“Peter carved his name too close to Ben's and too far from Melody's”, Dean points out. “She's a little overly attached”. He swallows his mouthful before he adds, “But they're working on it.”

Sam snorts but nods. “Grace added a heart around hers and Stan's names. Ten bucks she's dumped him by now.”

“How do you know that?”, Dean frowns.

“He carved the names, she carved the heart and the + between their names. He’s a bastard”, Sam answers like Dean’s a dumbass for not figuring it out on his own.

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I bet that’s what Grace told Stan when she left his sorry ass”, Sam grins.

It's safe, familiar, it's easy. The words flow as easily as the beer from the bottles they drown in big gulps. They rest for an hour, finding a tree that didn't die from the heat yet and offers some semblance of a shade. But they don't stay long, because the itch under their skin is still there.

They silently agree that they'll take their sweet time once they leave the state. It's tiring to ride for this long, but they don't care. It's where they feel the most like they're free to do anything and be anyone. The sun drifts across the sky and follows them, casting warm rays on their forearms and Dean already know he's gonna have to tie a bandana on the back of his head to protect his nose from getting sunburnt. But he wouldn't stop for the world.

By the time Sam parks by the side of the road, they're both sweaty and their arms ache in the best way. The landscape is still mostly flat, endless fields of burnt grass to the left and to the right, and there's nothing really noteworthy about this place. It's quiet and eerily calm. It's as calm as the mornings at Bobby's, when the world is still clinging to the last remnants of sleep, and the moon is still up in the sky.

The sun is starting to set, and neither of them owns a watch but it must be close to six. They haven't seen a single car for the past two hours, and it feels like a desolated land, where even flowers don't bother to grow.

Maybe this is why Dean asks, as he opens a bottle of water to pour some in his hand and rub it on his face,

“The fuck are we doing here?”

The water in his hand is warm and quickly turns brown, and Dean aches for a shower. Sam is stretching by his bike, turning his face toward the sun and letting its rays warm his face. Under the leather cut, Dean can see the purple shirt clinging to Sam's skin, soaked with sweat. It makes his mouth water but there's a time for everything and Dean knows now isn't the right one. Sam doesn't answer at first, just keeps stretching while he walks around.

He looks at the ground, kicking some small rocks around with his feet and seeming to search for something. He looks around him and finally stops two feet away from Dean.

“South Dakota.”

Dean's about to ask what the hell Sam is talking about when his brother takes a big step backward, a small cloud of dust following him and settling on his boots.

“Wyoming,” he beams.

It's so simple. Dean can't stop the smile that's slowly taking hold of his face. He doesn't fight it, not when it makes Sam grin harder. Here they are.

“So what's the weather like over there, Sammy?”

Sam's grin gets ever bigger, and each time Dean wonders how it's possible for Sam to always be able to smile harder. Sam pretends to look around, makes a show of licking his finger and lifting it in the air to know from which direction the wind is coming. Dean watches him and doesn't know how old is the man, _boy_ , he is watching.

“Meh, it's alright, better than home, if you ask me.”

Dean takes slow steps forward, closing the distance between him and Sam and when he stops, right in front of his brother, almost chest to chest, Sam's grin soften.

“Welcome to Wyoming,” he whispers, just before Dean cups his face and brings their lips together.

Just like every time they kiss, it's slow at first. Just a simple touch, as natural as all the others. To them, a kiss means just as much as a hug or a pat on the back. It's not something only lovers have the right to call theirs, and the first kiss is always one they share because it just feels right. It's clumsy because they're both smiling, their mouths stretching and bumping against each other more than really kissing. It’s too hot, their faces sweaty and coated with a thin layer of dirt. It's still perfect.

They slowly exchange kisses, press of dry lips together, brush each other's noses every time they change the angle of their faces. “Dean” leaves Sam’s lips breathlessly before it gets swallowed by Dean’s own mouth. Dean's hands are still framing Sam's face, not holding but just touching, mapping the contours of his brother's face and leaving his fingerprints everywhere. Maybe one day they’ll stay. But when they start to let their hands wander on the other's body, when they press their lips a little harder against the other's, that's when the kisses turns into something else, something wilder and hungrier. It's a breeze that goes from one body to the other, a soft gush of wind they never see and can only feel, blowing on embers they didn't realize they were carrying in their footsteps. They don't think about it, don't try to understand what it means that even when they're kissing they always need more. They love each other, always have and always will, but when their tongues meet, it's not about love. Their hearts pound wildly in their chests, birds trapped in the cage of their ribs.

Sam first sets his hands to either sides of Dean's neck, mimicking Dean's hold, and when Dean has to break the kiss to breathe, Sam doesn't waste time and starts to ghost kisses across Dean's cheeks. Sam's palms are hot on Dean's neck, hand shaped flames that don't burn so much as they make Dean's blood boil. Sam knows this, and he never stops, he kisses every inch of Dean's face like he's greedy for it, like he wants to learn how every inch of Dean's skin feels like against his lips. He slips his hands lower, putting them on Dean's shoulders first and then lower again, until he holds Dean by the hips. His mouth traces patterns on his face, and Sam probably tastes dust and sweat on his brother's face, despite the water Dean splashed on it earlier. It’s not about love.

He slips his hands underneath Dean's shirt and presses his palms against the damp skin of Dean's lower back. He brings Dean closer, until they touch almost everywhere and feel dizzy with each other's smell. Small gasps escape Dean's lips and it's all the invitation Sam needs. He tentatively starts to lick Dean's lips with his tongue, goes a little bit further until their tongues are dancing together and he can taste his own name hiding between Dean's teeth.

The kiss grows, and every time they part a split second to just breathe, Sam lunges forward at Dean's mouth again, shoving his tongue into Dean’s mouth and swallowing his harsh breaths. They can't get enough of each other, have to lick behind the other's teeth. They kiss, and each press of their lips screams _I was here._ Just like all the names that were carved into the wooden picnic table, they leave their initials on each other's tongues, a memory of that precise second, that exact day, that will live forever, no matter what happens next. And it’s not about love.

“Sam”

Dean is panting, and that's when they start to lose control, to hold instead of touch, to grab and pull. Dean touches Sam everywhere he can. His eyes are closed but he can see better this way. Sam is beautiful, his body miles of smooth skin, slim waist, hips and flat belly, a wide chest and broad shoulders, hard muscles shaping him into a Greek god, and Dean's hands are hungrier than his mouth. He presses the two of them tighter together, feels Sam getting hard against him and they have to stop, they really need to stop but it's like asking rain to drown the desert.

Dean slides his hands up Sam’s shirt, his palms sliding across the sweaty skin. His thumbs stroke the skin right underneath Sam’s jeans, and Sam shudders against him, hard. The feeling is intoxicating, almost as much as the taste of _Sam Sam Sam_ is in his mouth. He gasps again, and this time Sam buries his head in Dean's neck, starts to lick and bite the skin there, kissing the tattoo Dean knows is there, his brother initials spreading on his skin.

Sam keeps sucking his skin, and Dean is panting, feeling his hips starting to buck without his consent. This is too much, too intense, like it is every time, and maybe they should control their bodies better by now, maybe they should have gotten over that stage where they feel like horny teenagers, but they can't. Couldn't when they weren't teenagers yet, and can't now that they're not anymore. The wind is there, always there, twirling around them and touching the inside of their elbows and the back of their knees. Dean refuses to think about it, doesn't want to acknowledge what their sighs mean, what their silence is screaming. It's wordless, tasteless, it's just wind. Almost nonexistent, and yet it seems ready to turn into a full blown hurricane if they let it grow between their kisses.

Dean brings his hands in Sam's hair, tugging lightly on the braid to get his brother to stop, otherwise they're gonna have to spend a lot more time at the border between South Dakota and Wyoming than they thought. Sam stops kissing him but stays with his head buried in Dean's neck, taking deep breaths that send shivers rolling down Dean's spine. For a few minutes, they stay like this, holding on to each other, and their labored breaths are the only sounds breaking the peaceful silence. Life goes on, people pass along, nothing stays the same. It wasn’t about love.

“Let's find a place for tonight,” Dean whispers, almost as if speaking will end the moment and take its perfection away.

But he feels Sam smile against the skin of his neck, where he plants one last kiss, licking tentatively the skin where Dean knows Sam can taste his sweat, before he pulls back.

“Yeah, let's go.”

His eyes are still blown when he looks at Dean, black pupils huge with only a thin circle of hazel around it. His skin is lightly flushed, and he's never looked so beautiful.

~

They ride for another hour before they finally stop. They make a quick stop at a small dinner they find tucked on the side of the road, where they take burgers and fries to go. The woman who takes their order eyes them warily, the cut they're wearing a synonym of troubles in her mind, but she relaxes when Sam flashes her his trademark grin, the one that Dean associates with global warming. They find in the gas station stuck to the side of the dinner a pack of fresh beers and take the food and the drinks and leave in a hurry, the smell of greasy fries making their stomachs rumble. The sun is setting low on the horizon when they park on a side road that looks more like a trail than anything else. Weeds grow on both sides of the track, and the grass brushes their ankles as they push their bikes to the few trees that rise further. Wild strawberries grow in the shade of thick shrubs, small red beads contrasting with the surrounding green.

They put the bikes under a chestnut tree, checking up on them while they still have daylight with them, and when they're satisfied with their shape, they take their duffels bags, their food and head just a little further on the side of the track. The trees are few and far between, so they settle in the middle of the grass, pulling their sleeping bags out of their bags and carefully laying them on the ground. The sun dried everything that wasn't protected by the trees' shadows, and they only have to flick a few bugs away before they are settled. The stars start to shine, small dots of light that allow them to become silhouettes into the night. The summer heat still hasn't died down for the day, and it's clinging to their clothes. It's something they've done countless times.

Dean tosses Sam a lukewarm beer, and a burger wrapped in a greasy paper. He puts the bag full of fried on the sleeping bag between them and unwraps his own burger.

“Bon appétit”, he says solemnly before taking a huge bite.

“You’re an idiot”, Sam chuckles, but he starts to wolf down his burger as well.

“Mhhh”, Dean groans, “god this is good”. His eyes are closed and he’s making the kind of noises Sam usually hears when Dean’s locked in his bedroom with someone else.

“You really have a problem with food dude.”

“And you don’t know how to appreciate the fine things in life”, Dean retorts, snatching a handful of fries from the bag. Sam looks at him like Dean is the world’s eighth wonder and like he’s amazed by that fact, greasy fingers and shiny lips. The air is too hot around them, and the beer is not nearly cold enough, but Dean wouldn’t change a single thing about that moment.

He can remember a few camping trips he took with his dad, when he was barely four years old. He can still remember fleeting images filling his mind when he thinks about it. Snapshots of an aborted childhood. His mom's hands holding a baby Sam and making him wave his tiny hand as Dean and dad were leaving. The landscape rushing by the window as dad was driving them to the campsite he had picked, blinding sun against the windshield and Dean’s hand out of the window, playing with the wind. The feeling of grass under his bare feet, tickling like a million eyelashes. The shadows playing on the fabric of the tent they were sleeping in. Leaves and branches, bugs crawling on the fabric. The ants running on his legs and making him giggle. Dad handling him a wooden stick where a marshmallow was hooked. The joy in his small boy's heart.

Sitting in his father's lap and asking, “Can Sammy come with us next time?” while his father grinned at him and ruffled his hair, “Maybe, Deano, maybe”.

They never went camping the three of them. Life happened. But they went camping with Bobby a lot. Bobby would plan a hunting trip, packing enough food and drinks to make it look like he was just trying to get away from his house and the two overactive kids living in it, but he never said no when Dean and Sam asked if they could come with. Thinking about it now, Dean is almost certain the combination of both his and Sam's puppy dog eyes was the reason Bobby caved every time. But those days away from the house, sleeping in the tent they would bring up next to the small cabin Bobby would stay in, are some of the best memories they have.

They didn't care much about hunting, couldn't find the appeal in hiding for hours in the woods, tracking deer, pheasants or rabbits. While Bobby went hunting far enough to not mistake them for preys, the would play hide and seek between the trees, would climb them and pretend to be eagles, would wrestle in dirt and dry leaves for hours, until Bobby would come back, dragging his catch behind him, and would find them breathless and so dirty they were barely recognizable. These were the best holidays of their lives, even if each time, they only left for a couple of days.

~

_“You boys behave, alright?” Bobby says to them. He’s standing by the cabin’s door, rifle on his shoulder and his eternal cap on his head._

_Sam nods gravely, teeth biting on his bottom lip and hands bunched into fists like Bobby is giving him a particularly important mission. Dean wants to tease Sam but he knows that now is not the time for it, because Bobby has that frown on his face, the one that says “don’t mess with me boy or I’ll whoop your ass” even though Dean has yet to see Bobby raise a hand on any of them, and it’s not like they’ve never given him any reason to._

 

_“Promise, Bobby”, he says instead, bright smile on his face that he hopes doesn’t look too mischievous._

_Bobby eyes them warily for a second and then sighs, shaking his head._

_“Just… Don’t put anything on fire, please.”_

_He starts to walk away but stops after a few steps, turning around and warning them._

_“And if I find a dead bug under my pillow again when I come back, you will be in deep trouble, understood?”_

_Dean tries to contain his laugh and just nods, elbowing Sam in the ribs when his brother’s face fall._

_“Promise”, Sam grumbles._

_Bobby looks at them for another second but eventually leaves. Sam is still sulking when Bobby disappears behind trees._

_“Well, he didn’t say anything about finding something alive, did he?”_

_Sam’s face lights up when he understands what Dean means._

~

Up in the sky, the moon casts her pale light on the small clearing they're settled in, putting a blue filter on the grass, the blanket and the empty food containers. Dean takes careful sip of his beer, still finding it cold in comparison to the heat that's still clinging to his skin, which says a lot. He's pretty sure he already has a sunburn on his forearm and his nose. His skin feels too warm, too hot, and perhaps it's also because Sam is watching him from where he's sitting in front of him, a small smile on his face. There's a comfortable silence between them, while around their nest for the night, life is coming out of the grass. The singing of fireflies fills the air, along with buds of yellow light that dance around them. A few birds are still chirping, and a small breeze chases the last remnants of the day away. It's calm and quiet, and reminds them of those countless camping trips they took together.

“Alright, it’s time”, Sam says. When Dean raises his eyebrows in question, Sam gets to his knees and ruffles through his duffel bag, his hair falling on his forehead. The braid is still there, some strands now free of it, and Dean's fingers itch to touch. Sam takes a tube of something that looks suspiciously like Aloe out of his bag, and starts to get closer to Dean.

“You didn't think I'd leave without it.”

Sam's looking at Dean fondly as he settles on his haunches between Dean's legs. He uncaps the tube and puts a blob on his index.

“I thought you liked my freckles,” Dean – almost – pouts.

Sam's finger is cold on Dean's nose and it feels good. Sam spreads the cream slowly, his eyes flicking over to Dean's.

“I do,” he whispers, “but you don't.”

He rubs his finger in small circles, on the tip of Dean's nose, then on each side, before rubbing it on Dean's cheeks. It's soft and welcome and Dean closes his eyes for a second, relishing the feeling and storing it away, somewhere deep inside his chest. No one will ever steal that from him.

Once Sam is done rubbing the cream, he puts the tube aside and cups Dean's face between his palms. He puts his forehead on Dean's, and from here Dean's eyes can only make the shape of his brother's nose where it's brushing his.

“Thank you.”

The words are almost inaudible and Dean's not sure he heard right at first. He knows Sam is thanking him for agreeing to this trip without asking questions, but they both know Dean would have said yes even if Sam had proposed a trip to see Bieber live. He doesn't say that out loud though, and just nods slowly, making Sam's head move with his.

“Yeah”. There’s a lump in his throat, and echoes of a different season bouncing against his ribs. ‘yeah’ doesn’t answer anything but it’s all Dean can give Sam for now, and thankfully, it’s enough.

They get rid of their clothes and lay down on one sleeping bag in their underwear, while Sam put the second one they have to cover them both. Above them, the sky is clear and the stars are shining. Dean recognizes a few constellations and points them out with his fingers. It feels familiar, and yet always new.

“Do you see all those stars, Sammy?”

He doesn't see that Sam's looking at him when he answers,

“Yeah, I do.”

Dean always teases Sam for the things his brother obsesses over. He doesn't have to but he's a big brother so it's sort of his job. He will tease Sam endlessly about how he can play with a dog for three hours straight and no one can tell who's having more fun, the dog or Sam. He called Sam Houdini for three months when Sam went through a magic phase when he was ten, and still calls him Samantha when Sam insists on buying conditioner when they go get groceries. It's just how it works, and how it's supposed to be. So long as Sam will pick up small habits, nothing too bad and nothing too obvious unless you're watching him all the time, Dean will tease him about it. He knows Sam always grab the bottom of his own shirt and brushes it on his laptop's screen to get rid of the particles of dust that settled there before he fires it up every day. He knows Sam likes his coffee just this side of lukewarm, not hot anymore and just a tad bit above cold. He knows Sam has about a gazillion hair ties in his room and only uses the same one until it breaks and he has to change. He bites the skin around his fingernails when he's worried about something, bites his bottom lip when he's thinking, bites Dean's shoulder when he just can.

So Dean likes to tease, and Sam gives back tenfold. He moans his brother's name in an obscene high pitched tone whenever Dean comes back home after a night out smelling like a woman's perfume. He asks “s'up princess?,” when he catches Dean's clipping his fingernails, because Dean can't stand to have nails, can't stand the dirt that always find a way to get stuck under them and how they catch into anything and everything. He tells Dean that Elvis just called and would like his jacket back whenever Dean wears the only black leather jacket he owns, that somehow Sam seems to hate with passion.

What he doesn't tease him about though, is Dean's random fascination for stars. Dean himself can't explain it, and doesn't remember when he started to learn about constellations and how to spot them in the night sky. There are a couple of books in Dean's room, worn out pages and faded covers, full of notes and with pictures stuck between the pages, all dark safe for bright dots of light, supernovas and the different phases of the moon creating the only photo album Dean ever made.

So it's not a surprise when Dean points out the different stars and tells Sam stories about them. Sam stops looking at his brother and follows his pointed finger instead, trying to see what Dean sees. Dean point at three stars, aligned on top of each other.

“That's Piri.”

He moves his finger to the right, going from one star to another and then a third one.

“That's Tiri,” he says. “They're twins.”

Sam hums quietly next to him, probably still trying to spot the exact stars Dean is showing him.

“What are they doing up there?” he asks, and Dean hears it for what it is. _Go ahead geek boy, impress me._

He lets his hand fall back, settling his fingers in Sam's hair and playing with the braid he can feel in the darkness.

“They loved each other so much that their mom got jealous. They were always together, brother and sister only having eyes for each other. One evening, their mom went on the beach to get all sorts of shells so she could make dinner for her family. But once she had gathered enough, it was already the middle of the night. And well, you know you're supposed to eat the shells as soon as you get them otherwise it's not as good, so she went home right away to cook them. When she got there, her husband and Piri and Tiri were already asleep and she got real mad.”

“What did she do?” Sam asks, and he sounds wide awake now, fascinated and curious, just like he was when Dean read him bedtime stories when Sam was four and wouldn't sleep without Dean reading him something, anything, even news articles from Bobby's paper.

Dean smiles, hand still playing with Sam's hair, and he goes on,

“She started to cook anyway, but she was so angry. She was talking to herself, wondering why she even bothered when Piri was only looking at Tiri and Tiri was only looking at Piri. They didn't need her, they were ungrateful little brats – kinda like you – and umph oh come on that was a joke.”

Sam's elbow is still nudged against Dean's ribs but there's a smile in his voice when he speaks, “Keep going.”

Dean squirms until Sam's pointy elbow isn't pressing against his ribs as hard anymore, and goes back to the story, his eyes never leaving the stars.

“She shook her husband awake when the food was ready and told him to eat, but when he said he was going to wake the kids, she lost it. She told him to not do it, that they could starve as far as she was concerned, she didn't care. They didn't care about her anyway, so why would she bother? Except Piri was awake and she heard everything. So she woke her brother and told him they had to go, couldn't stay here because their mom hated them. Tiri was afraid but he'd have followed his sister anywhere so together they got up and fled into the night.”

“Did their mom kill them and now they live in the stars?”

“Dude... That's... No!”

“What?”

“Wh- ok never mind.”

“So? What happened?”

“For fuck's sake Sam let me finish the fucking story and you'll know.”

“Alright, alright, sorry, keep going.”

“Jeez... So, Piri and Tiri fled but on the beach they realized that they couldn't go anywhere because the sea wouldn't let them escape.”

“Why don't they go deeper into the land then?”

“I swear to god Sam if you don't shut the fuck up I'm not finishing this.”

“I'm just asking!”

There's a petulant intonation to Sam's voice that make Dean believe for half a second that they're both respectively four and eight and that Sam has hit that stage in his little boy's life where nothing is simple and everything has to be questioned over and over again.

“They live on an island ok?” Dean snaps, tugging meaningfully on Sam's hair and smiling when he hears a small hiss coming from Sam's mouth. Sam doesn't speak for the next few seconds, and Dean feels safe enough to talk.

“They were desperate but didn't want to go back home, where their mom didn't want them. So Piri looked up to the stars and said to her brother “I'll go if you go,” and Tiri looked at the stars too, and said the same thing back to her. They stepped on rocks and went higher and higher until they could grab the cloth of the night between their fingers, and they climbed. Above the stars, above the moon, they climbed, never leaving each other's side. By the time the morning came, their parents were running everywhere looking for them, desperate. Their mom was sick with worry, ashamed of what had happened and crying for her lost kids. They thought they had drowned in the sea, but looking up, the father saw two new stars still visible in the cracking dawn. “There,” he said, and they both climbed into the sky, running after their kids to apologize. But Piri and Tiri think they're still angry, so they keep running, side by side, and their parents keep running after them.”

Silence surrounds them back again, and Dean smiles at Tiri and Piri up there in the sky, endlessly running. Sam's voice is sleepy when he speaks, and his arm has moved, not so much poking Dean's ribs as it is slowly circling his waist,

“S'nice. Who told you that?”

“Read it. It's a story from the Cook Islands.”

Sam almost snorts, although it sounds more like an aborted attempt because he's too sleepy to really try.

“Do you even know where the Cook Islands are?”

“Who the fuck cares?”

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, Dean looking at the stars and Sam falling asleep. Sam eventually wiggles closer, his arm never leaving Dean's waist and he buries his head in Dean's neck, taking deep breaths that send warmth on Dean's skin and rolling like waves down his spine. He still feels dirty from their ride, would give a lot for a shower right now but at the same time wouldn't move an inch, even for a million dollars. All he can do is warn Sam.

“I'm gross.”

“I don't care.”

They fall asleep like that.

~

The next morning comes way too soon for Dean's liking. He feels the first rays of sunshine hitting his face when he’s positively certain that he only slept for an hour. It must be only six or seven, because it's not hot yet and there's dew on the grass around them. He cracks his eyes open and blinks a few times before he's able to recognize the scenery around him.

Sam is snoring lightly beside him, sprawled on his back, the morning light kissing every inch of his face and Dean once again wonders how fair it is that Sam can sleep through anything. Sam's lashes are resting on his cheeks, the top of them lighter than the base, and Dean wants to brush them with his thumb, wants to know if they feel as soft as they look. There's so much of Sam and Dean still wants more. Everything he is, everything he was, everything he will be. He wants to take Sam's snores and bury them in his chest with all the other small things that define his brother and that Dean collected year after year. The stars reflected in Sam's eyes when they go stargazing. His bony shoulders when Sam was a teenager. The hair at the nape of his neck. His cheeks flushing with praise. Dean keeps it all in his chest, in his stomach, hides all of it in his elbows and the back of his knees, a jigsaw puzzle of Sam tucked in all the tender places of his body.

He extricates himself from their makeshift bed and stretches, feeling the pull in his muscles where they're still a little sore from the ride of the day before. Today will be pretty much the same, but he's already anxious to go. It's a good kind of hurt, one that makes him smile to the morning light. He goes for his duffel bag and pulls out a clean shirt he puts on before his leather cut, before putting back on his jeans from the previous day. The fabric feels too soft against his skin, and he wishes he could change. The skin on his cheeks and nose is burning and he doesn't need to see himself to know he must still be red there. He rummages through his bag and finds a black bandana he stuffs in the back pocket of his jeans. He'll tie it behind his head later.

The beers he and Sam didn't drink the night before are still mostly fresh and Dean cracks one open, drinking in big gulps and enjoying how the cool beer settles in his stomach.

“Beer for breakfast uh?” comes a sleepy voice behind him.

He turns around and smiles at Sam where he's still sprawled on the ground, the cover hiding the lower half of his body. His hair is sticking in all directions, only the braid keeping it in line on the side of his head. The sun's not even high in the sky and Sam is already gorgeous.

Dean shrugs.

“I'll drink yours if you don't want it,” he says, and smirks when Sam jumps to his feet and pushes Dean out of his way to get to his beer.

“Don't even think about it,” Sam grins as he cracks his bottle open.

Dean stares at Sam's bare torso, at the defined contours of his muscles. He memorizes each curve, stares at Sam's hipbones and comes closer to be able to brush his thumb there. There is poetry to wax about Sam's hips but Dean can't think of the words and is not sure any could really explain properly how it feels like to touch his brother's skin like this. Sam smiles around the rim of the bottle, and Dean tracks the movement of his Adam's apple when he swallows.

“Food?” Sam asks, and Dean draws closer, until he can kiss the corner of Sam's mouth. Soft, chaste, love dropped like a delicate flower to blossom on Sam's skin.

“Strawberries,” he whispers against his brother's lips.

They spend the next twenty minutes picking strawberries, eating them and throwing them at each other like kids, laughing the whole time. They get stuck in their hair, stain their shirts and skins in pink and dark red. It's easy, simple, makes them remember those camping trips they took with Bobby. It's a good morning and they enjoy the quiet before they have to leave again. Sam gets dressed after that, to Dean's infinite despair, and they get ready to leave again. They pick strawberries out of each other's hair, and lick their sticky fingers.

Dean remembers Sam trying to make jam with strawberries he'd pick from Bobby's junkyard, his little face scrunched with concentration and asking Dean for help to boil the fruits and put the jam in jars. They would always end up burning their fingers with boiling hot jam, Sam biting his bottom lip and eyes blinking back tears but he would never complain. Dean also remembers the look of complete horror when Bobby had found them in his kitchen, mashed strawberries on the floor and the walls, burns all over their arms and liquid fruit puree barely filling half of a small jar.

It makes Dean smile, and as he licks his fingers and taste the delicious fruit, he finds himself standing in Bobby's kitchen with Sam again, both of them little kids with jam all over their skins. He doesn't remember if they ever succeeded to make one jar. It doesn't really matter.

His stomach doesn't appreciate the memory though, and growls menacingly. Dean's hungry and aches for anything resembling a shower because he's not sure if he's already tanned or just filthy. The dirt clings to his skin, and the summer heat is already creeping up his legs. But he has the road. And he has Sam.

Before they leave, Sam plucks the bandana from Dean's back pocket, making sure to let his hand trail slowly and deliberate around the curve of Dean's ass, smirking at the goose bumps it raises on his brother's skin. He ties the small piece of fabric around the lower half of Dean's face, making sure his nose is covered before he puts Dean's helmet on his brother's head. Dean doesn't like it too much because he can't breathe properly this way but there's no way he'll let himself get burned again. Sam grins when he notices how Dean scrunches up his nose under the bandana, but whatever he says is lost to the sound of Dean starting his bike's engine. It takes Dean only a minute to hear the sound of Sam's bike joining his as he gets out of the trail and starts to ride on the road.

It feels good to have the wind blowing around them and to get a little further away from Bobby's. They've never been this far. Dean can't believe it took them this long to leave, can't believe Sam didn't ask for this road trip sooner, can't believe he himself didn't think of doing this. It's freedom at its finest, it's why they have bikes and wear patches. It's what made Sam ride this stupid kid's bike so many years ago.

They only ride for an hour before Sam pulls off the side of the road, his bike slowing down, Dean not far behind. At first, Dean's not sure why they leave the main road but then he spots it too, the sign that says “Keyhole reservoir” in bright bold letters. Water. The mere thought of it is enough to make him smile under his bandana. They ride on a small road and can smell the water in the wind that brushes their faces. They stop in Pine Heaven to get food, small town unsurprisingly surrounded by pine trees, and where the grass is still green. It's perfect. They find a small grocery shop where they buy fresh bottles of water and cinnamon bagels, and carry it all with them to the reservoir.

The land is flat and it doesn't take them long to spot the lake. It's huge, clear blue water reflecting the sky, unless it's the other way around, and when they park on a secluded stretch of land, a small cove just for them, they can't keep the grins from their faces any longer. Pine trees cast big shadows where the air is just a little bit cooler, not enough to send the heat away but enough to stop sweating. There are still patches of sunlight burning the grass on the ground, stains of light kissing the earth. It's eerily quiet, almost completely silent except a lonely bird chirping every few minutes. There are boats sailing far away in the middle of the reservoir but they are the only proof that Sam and Dean aren't alone.

They park their bikes and sit in the shade of one of the countless pine trees that surround their patch of land, and eat their bagels in hungry bites. The cinnamon is sweet and coats their fingers in a thin sticky film of sugar. They keep licking their fingers, chasing the taster with their tongues and humming contentedly. Sam inhales his bagel in half a minute, then starts to eye what's left of Dean's, fingers twitching in his lap. Dean catches his brother's gaze and is reminded of countless meals where his fries suspiciously went missing, one after the other, every time he turned his head to look at something.

“Mph don'tchu dare,” Dean speaks around a mouthful but there's no way Sam goes near his bagel. It's barely enough to calm Dean's hunger and he's been tricked too many times to let Sam win anymore. He likes to think so, at least. There's a wounded look on Sam's face, like he's the one who's been betrayed his entire life, and soon the puppy eyes are out full force.

“Dude, this worked when you were eight,” Dean says before taking the last bite of his bagel.

What he doesn't say is that it still works, but given the way Sam smirks, his brother knows it. Sam sighs and flips him off though, and stands up, stretching his arms and legs before he takes his cut off.

“Fine, let me starve to death, asshole.”

Dean laughs and tugs on his boots before he takes off his socks,

“S'been my goal all along”.

It doesn't take them long after that to stand in their boxer briefs and step toward the water. They dumped their clothes off and let them fall on the ground, thrown haphazardly for the whole world to see. Another memory, another timeless picture taken that nothing can ever claim back. Shirts and pants on the grass, modern art that speaks volumes. Naked happiness mixed with the dirt on the stains on their jeans, love hidden in the creases of their shirts. Everything is different, everything stays the same.

Sam walks in first, not stopping once the water reaches his ankles, and Dean swears that because Sam is a furnace, body temperature always higher than everyone else, he doesn't feel the cold biting his toes the way Dean does.

“Fuuuuck”, he hisses and there’s a snort answering him. The water is freezing cold, and some part of Dean's brain is mocking him, asking _What did you expect, genius?_ But it's still cold enough to make him stop in his tracks and reconsider the whole thing. They'll stop in a motel tonight, he can wait till then to get a proper shower, with hot water and a good pressure. He doesn't need to put himself through this.

“Come on man”, Sam says where he’s standing, head turned back to look at Dean.

“I’m gonna die of hypothermia”. Dean doesn’t mean for it to sound like a whine but it very much does. Sam shakes his head but keeps walking deeper in the water.

“Crybaby”

“What did you say?!”

“You heard me”. Sam’s eyebrow is raised playfully, smirk tugging at his lips and Dean can’t feel his toes anymore but oh this is _on_.

So instead of stepping back, Dean does what he did the day before when Sam turned on the engine of his bike, what he did when Sam ran toward the ice cream truck once he was old enough to understand what the little jingle meant, and what he did that fourth of July, 1996, when Sam ran in a empty field carrying a cardboard box full of fireworks: he follows his brother.

In front of him, Sam keeps going, and Dean looks at the fox curled on his brother's arm, wonders if its fur will protect him from the freezing water. Sam doesn't shiver, doesn't curse, just keeps walking with his arms above the water, the movement making the muscles in his shoulders and back move and stretch.

There's something utterly beautiful about the way Sam's body seems to be at ease everywhere. A delicacy Dean always admired. Sam grew up with the kind of modesty flowers that bloom in places where the eyes can't reach hold. A shy grace, unfiltered, unconscious. And Dean is so thankful he got to witness it all. He stares at the small clover leaf tattooed just on the right side of Sam's lower back, bottom leaf hidden by Sam's underwear, and he can't help but wonder who's the luckiest between them two.

Water starts to lick the bottom of Sam's ass and he has the decency to hiss. _Fucking finally._ Dean's balls are shrinking just thinking about it. He can't do this. But all at once, Sam lunges forward and swims, head going under for a second before he comes back for air, laughing and coughing water.

“Come on man, this is so good.”

He's swimming back towards Dean, wide eyes full of joy and Dean takes careful steps forward, wincing when the water reaches his knees. Sam swims a little closer but stops when Dean shoots him a warning glance.

“If you even flick one drop at me I swear to God I'll kill you Sam.”

“That'd be really frightening if you weren't looking like a drenched kitten.”

Dean looks down at himself and frowns.

“I'm not drenched.”

And he understands his mistake a second too late. He feels a brick wall connect with his side and fall on him, a rock hard wall with arms and legs wrapping themselves around his body and dragging him down. The water swallows them both and Dean shouts underneath, cold turning his lungs into ice and snow settling on his brain. He fights against Sam's arms that are still locked around him and can hear Sam groan when he manages to elbow his stomach. _That's the least of your worries right now, motherfucker._

He puts his feet on the ground and gets up, breaking the surface and coughing, the sun valiantly trying to warm up his skin but Dean can't feel anything at the moment. Sam breaches the surface too, and he laughs when he sees Dean's face.

“You're dead you hear me?!” Dean yells but Sam just laughs harder, eyes bright and happy and Dean would probably fall in love a little more with his brother right now if he wasn't so livid.

“Dean Dean Dean, you're just so _easy_.”

Sam looks smug and his dimples are carved so deep in his cheeks they look like scars, left by happiness and summer days. Dean feels it in the back of his knees, soft and yet hungry, the impulse to get closer closer closer because there is always too much space between his and Sam's body. It's a need, predatory, wilderness coursing through his veins and even the road can't bring him a feeling so powerful. It's all Sam, Sam and his laughs, Sam and his eyes that never seem to know what color they want to be, Sam and the mole next to his nose, that Dean could spend days just looking at, Sam and the blue veins running under the tender skin of his wrists, begging to be kissed. Soft, real. Alive. If he really believed it could all fit in his ribcage, all the light pulsing between Sam's bones, Dean would make a space for his brother right where his heart is, pushing everything aside until Sam's the only thing rubbing against the sharp edges of his ribs.

He can't say that though, can't voice how desperate he's been his entire life for all of Sam's gazes and all of his smiles. Instead he lunges forward and manages to catch one of Sam's hands. And a lifetime of reflexes make Sam tug. That's how Dean finds himself gripping Sam's arms and pushing him underwater, Sam not so much trying to dislodge Dean as he is to drag him with him under the surface. They chase each other in the water and Dean holds on to his outrage until Sam flicks droplets of water in his face, with just a twist of his wrist. It's enough to make Dean crack a smile and Sam knows he's won, this time.

They swim until the water isn't so cold anymore, and until Dean's fingertips are covered with wrinkles. When he gets tired of swimming, he just lays on his back and lets the water rock him gently. He looks at the clear blue sky and the lonely cloud drifting lazily, far above them. He's weightless, rocked gently by the water in the pale semblance of an embrace he never got to know, and it feels good. It doesn't take long until he feels fingertips grazing his scalp, making it even better. The voice in his ear is as soft as the hands touching him.

“You're gonna burn.”

Dean sighs and moves, letting his legs sink until he feels the rocks under his feet. He stands up and looks at Sam, who's already walking toward the edge of the reservoir, each step taking him out of the water a little more.

“How come I'm the only one who burns?” he calls after Sam.

“You know what people say,” Sam says without turning back, “you always make drafts before the masterpiece.”

He does turns his head around to smirk at Dean, smug and confident and fucking beautiful. Dean wants to yell.

“I'll show you masterpiece,” he mutters as he follows Sam out of the water and goes to sit in the shade of the pine tree where he ate earlier.

Sam is standing with his face turned toward the sun, sunflower following the light and Dean wants to laugh, wants to turn this into a joke except he can't, and his silence says more than a book full of prayers. He watches Sam, who gathers their clothes and dumps them unceremoniously in the lake, shaking them a little bit until the water around them turns brown. It's not optimum cleaning but it'll do. He wrings their shirts and pants, and sets them to dry on the ground. After that, Sam comes by Dean's side and lays on his back, where he falls asleep only after a couple minutes, and Dean sighs. It's unfair, it's so fucking unfair. He looks at his brother and carefully brushes a wet strand of hair out of his forehead, before he goes back to look at the lake. The boats are still sailing in the distance, white sails in stark contrast with the blue of the water and the blue of the sky. This is only Wyoming, Dean thinks, just Wyoming, and he smiles.

They stay until their skins and clothes are dry, Sam waking from his nap with burnt grass in his hair and a frown on his face. He looks like a kid who just got told recess is cancelled, and Dean sits on his hands to stop them from reaching with his thumb to smooth the wrinkle between Sam's eyebrows. It's getting close to noon and the sun is beating down on every patch of earth its rays can reach. They put their clothes back on, and Dean's stomach starts rumbling noisily. He's excited about this road trip but if it means eating strawberries and a bagel each day it's gonna get real old real fast. Thankfully, Sam seems to be starving just as much, if the dejected look he throws his stomach is anything to go by. Sam's an open book when it comes to food.

“How about we ride till the next dinner we see?” Dean calls, and Sam straddles his bike as he answers,

“Fuck yeah, I'm starving.”

The loud rumble of their engines breaks the silence and Dean ties his bandana around his face again. He doesn't think about it when he looks at Sam's hair, spots the braid or what's left of it after a night out and a swim, but it'll hold until their next stop. It's more for show anyway. They both put their helmets on, and Dean goes back on the road, Sam following him. They leave Pine Haven and their morning by the lake, and ride until they reach the outskirts of Gillette, a little less than an hour later. The closer they get to town, the more traffic there is. It's not that Dean doesn't like riding between cars, but it's not his favorite pastime either. He trusts himself, but he doesn't trust other drivers. He can remember a handful of times where a car cut him off or drove way too close, and it never ended well. For the drivers anyway.

Dean spots a dinner by the side of the road, faded sign shouting “Pam's Kitchen” in what used to be a bright red lettering. It would look abandoned if it wasn't for the dozen cars parked in front of it. They park their bikes by the side of the dinner, and their mouths water as soon as they step in, the smell of bacon and fries filling their noses.

They get seated by a cute little thing who eyes their cuts like she doesn't know if she wants to run for the hills or beg them to take her with them wherever they're going. Sam winks and orders a cheeseburger with fries, extra cheese extra onions extra everything and a coke, and Dean just says “make that two sweetheart,” before she leaves with a flush on her cheeks and a stuttered “coming right up.”

When Dean looks back to Sam, his brother is watching him with a small but knowing smirk, head cocked to the side.

“You just made her day.”

“Pretty sure you made her night with that wink, Casanova.”

Sam just grins harder, sitting back in his booth and straightening his legs under the table. He nudges Dean's feet apart with one of his own and settles his legs between Dean's. It all happens in two seconds, and they both ignore it. The waitress comes back with two glasses of water that Sam and Dean down in five seconds, and she refills them with a bemused smile, still not quite meeting either of their gazes. Their food comes quickly after that and they wolf it down like starved men, stealing fries from each other's plates and getting their hands batted away whenever they get caught in the act. Their plates are empty not long after that, and their stomachs full, but it doesn't stop Sam from ordering two slices of pie, apple and pecan.

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam once the waitress is gone with their order.

“Which one's for me?” he asks carefully and Sam doesn't even pretend to think about it.

“Who says there's one for you?”

Dean closes his legs around Sam, making it just this side of painful and Sam does make a valiant effort at trying to hide the wince from showing on his face, but eventually fails.

“Pecan.”

“Good,” Dean answers and releases the pressure on Sam's legs, who scoffs at him.

“Like you'd even let me have that one if I wanted to.”

True enough. But still. There are rules and Dean follows the rules. He still lets Sam taste a little of his slice once they get their dessert, just a tiny bite because trading pecan for apple is downright criminal in his book.

Clouds start to gather in the sky as they head out of the dinner, shades of gray settling like ashes on the clear blue. The heat is still clinging to their bodies like a second skin but at least the sun isn't beating down on them mercilessly anymore. They ride on backroads and pass little towns that summer seems to have put in a relative coma. They're heading South, passing through Sleepy Hollow, Wright, Douglas, the towns’ names forgotten as soon at the signs disappear behind them. Dean watches as the sky slowly wraps itself in a coat of gray, shades going darker and darker while the temperature finally goes down, just a little.

They've been riding for almost three hours when the first drop of rain hits Dean's naked forearm, and others join it. They keep riding, the sky almost black above their heads, rain starting as a soft drizzle until it's pouring, buckets of water falling on them. They're gonna have to stop soon, the water making the road slippery and even though Sam is just in front of him, Dean can barely see his black coat through the curtains of water swallowing them. They make it to the next town, Glendo and Sam makes a left on what is conveniently called Water Road. Dean knows his brother, and he knows Sam did this on purpose, probably chuckling to himself under his helmet.

Turns out Water Road leads to water, unsurprisingly. Glendo has its own reservoir, just like Pine Haven has. But instead of pines, it's surrounded by piles of smooth and red stones, that remind Dean of the Grand Canyon for some reason. They park under a bus stop that doesn't seem to be in use anymore, timetable from 2012 taped under a map of the area, and sit on their bikes looking at the rain falling on the lake.

Dean's bandana is soaked and he dumps it in his helmet that he lays carefully next to him on his bike's seat. The end of Sam's hair is dripping, water rolling down his neck and slipping under the hem of his shirt.

“Feel like taking a swim again?” Sam asks without taking his eyes off the water, soft smile on his lips and lashes blinking back drops of rain.

“I think I'll pass, thanks Ariel.”

“Didn't fetch you for a Disney boy,” Sam snorts, and Dean just shrugs.

“I already live with a princess at home, these movies are like tutorials on how to deal with it.”

Sam barks out a laugh, elbowing Dean in the ribs.

“I'm gonna tell Bobby you called him a princess,” he grins.

“That's not-” Dean starts before he sees the mischievous glint in Sam's eyes and they both start laughing.

The next five minutes are spent doubling over and choking on laughter while they picture Bobby walking around in a dress and a little tiara, wobbling on shiny high heels and breaking into songs at the most random times. It takes them a while to calm down, and the rain doesn't stop for the whole time. It even seems to be pouring harder by the time they stop laughing and are surrounded by the sound of rain again.

“We should bring him back a glittery baseball cap,” Sam eventually says.

It's another ten minutes before they stop laughing.

Eventually the rain goes back to a faint drizzle and it's good enough for them. They get back on the road and since it's barely the end of the afternoon, they ride for two hours before they eventually get back near the interstate 80. They spot a motel and Sam follows Dean when he decides that it's gonna be their bedroom for the night. There are a few cars in the parking lot, and the place looks decent enough. The rooms are all aligned next to the other, green doors with golden numbers nailed on top of them. Everything looks like it could use a little make over, peeling paint on the walls and potted fake plants with faded leaves that each have an inch of dust on them.

Sam secures their bikes and takes their duffel bags while Dean walks to the main office. The clerk’s office looks like organized chaos. There are things everywhere, books, empty mugs, paperwork drowning the desk, something that might have been a piece of candy once, and something that might have been alive once. Dean is sure the owner knows exactly where everything is, just like he knows where each of his things are in his own room, but it’s still a bit impressive. It takes him a full minute to spot the small transistor that's softly playing country, almost completely hidden behind a clockwork that died one day at exactly 6:26. At least it’s on time twice a day. Dean tries to see if there’s a bell or something on the counter, under the bazillion ads for local fairs and festivals, all taking place at least one year ago, and once he’s fairly sure there isn’t anything here, he loudly clears his throat.

A muffled curse answers him and from the rustling and shifting, Dean can guess the front desk is only the emerged part of the iceberg. It takes the clerk another full minute to finally come out of his private office, and Dean isn’t the least surprise to notice that he’s a living version of his office. The guy must be seventy year old, his skin wrinkled around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, proof of a life spent smiling, and Dean immediately knows he and Sam made the right choice stopping here. His white hair is flying in all directions, and the glasses on his nose are so thick the guy must be blind without them. The clerk is wearing a grey hoodie (that probably was black originally) you’d expect to see on a teenager, at least two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowing his hands. His red pants, on the other hand, are way too small, and Dean spots a green sock on the guy’s bare foot, and a red one on the other. He’s only wearing one sneaker. All in all, it’s very “Back to the future” material. The clerk eyes Dean wearily, squinting his eyes, and Dean can’t really blame him. He’s a big guy, wearing a biker patch and the fact that he's drenched doesn't seem to make him look less threatening, despite Sam always saying he looks _adorable_ when he's soaked.

“Evening gentleman, what can I do for you?” the man asks with a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Dean tries to go for casual, after all, he may look like danger but he just wants a room for him and Sam. He's sunburnt, dirty, and soaked wet, how dangerous can he really look?

“Hey, I’d like a room for the night. Two queens, I’m with my brother.”

The clerk looks around in the office, obviously trying to spot the so-called brother and Dean can’t help but picture the guy in a lab making crazy potions.

“He’s getting our bags,” Dean adds when the clerk doesn’t seem to be about to stop looking for Sam in the room, “It’s raining pretty hard”.

The guy reports his attention to Dean and seems to find something reassuring somewhere because he becomes less tense and starts to dig around in the sea of papers splattered on the front desk.

“Yes, sure, it’s, of course, it’s really bad out there, let me just, dammit where the hell is, oh wait, I got it, no, yes!”

He stops rambling and hands Dean the traditional paperwork. Once he gets his keys, he leaves the guy to his mess and goes back outside to find Sam waiting for him under the relative safety of the small porch in front of the office.

They take their bikes in front of their room and rush inside with their bags. It’s small and simple and much cleaner than Dean imagined. The walls are a light shade a grey, and the rug on the white floor has a few questionable stains on it but nothing too worrisome. Sam dumps their bags on one bed, they'll only use the other anyway, and calls dibs on the shower before Dean has time to say anything. It's only slightly annoying.

He turns the small TV on and stops on a channel that seems to be replaying a star wars marathon. Dean groans when he sees Natalie Portman.

“Of course they'd show the lame ones first.”

It will be good enough though. He's already tired and has no doubt Sam is feeling the same way. Their arms and legs are aching from the prolonged ride. It's a good kind of burn, but a burn nonetheless and right now the bed looks like heaven. Dean can hear the water being turned on in the bathroom and gets his phone out of his bag, snatching the pizza delivery menu off of the bedside table and ordering two large pizzas, one pepperoni and cheese and one mushrooms and olives, adding that if the delivery guy picks them a six pack on the way he can expect a generous tip.

Sam is still showering when Dean steps in the bathroom to peel his wet clothes off and dump them on the tiles. Steam is rising from the tub and fog is hiding Dean's reflection in the mirror.

“Hurry up Sam.”

“I just got in!” comes the reply from behind a white plastic shower curtain that's surprisingly without stains.

Dean steps out of his jeans, wincing at the rough feeling of wet fabric sliding against his skin. His shirt seems no better, even though his cut offered some protection against the rain. The leather is heavy and cold in his hands, almost dripping and Dean swears he'll treat it with a good wax once they're back. In the meantime, it'll have to dry here, with the rest of his clothes. The white shirt ends with the jeans on the floor, and he dumps his socks on top of it all. He's about to take off his briefs, that are damp as well, when Sam's hand grips the curtain and pulls it just enough to let Sam's head pop from the side.

“Dude, can't you wait for five minutes?”

Dean just takes his underwear off, pulls the curtain a little wider and gets in the tub, almost moaning when he feels the first drops of hot water hit his skin.

“There won't be any hot water left if I wait until your precious ass is done,” he supplies, and Sam doesn't argue, just twists on himself trying to look at his own ass and shakes it a little, grinning, before nodding and elbowing Dean in the ribs.

A whole silent sentence. It doesn't really matter.

Bobby never had the patience to give them their bath separately as kids, and Sam and Dean always liked taking it together anyway. It was funnier, although it often ended with more water all over Bobby's bathroom than in the bathtub. It hasn't happened in a long time, now that Dean thinks about it, but it feels familiar. They've seen each other naked plenty of times.

There's nothing new in the way Sam's back muscles move with the movements of his arms. Dean's fingers would recognize each of the dips in Sam's spine before he would even touch them. The moles peppered on Sam's skin like bruised kisses stand out like road signs on the only highway Dean could ride with his eyes closed. The wide expanse of Sam's back, the slide of his spine, the ridge of his hips, the lines of the clover leaf tattooed on his brother's lower back, Dean knows all of it by heart. It's comforting, and mind blowing. Water is running down Sam's back, the most daring droplets sliding in the crack of his ass with an obscene dereliction. Dean doesn't realize he's not really getting wet until Sam steps to the side as much as he can in the small tub and half of the spray finally hits Dean.

He closes his eyes and lets the water feel too hot on his sunburn and barely warm enough on his frozen feet. He tips his head forward and when he opens his eyes again, the water that falls in the tub is a light shade a brown. Droplets cling to his eyelashes and he blinks them away, enjoying the steady rush in his hair and on his skin. He stays like that a minute before he raises his head again, hand coming up to brush his hair back.

Sam is standing in front of the shower head, back to Dean and head tipped back to get the water to fall directly in his face. His hair falls behind his head, braid barely visible on the side and Dean reaches to take the hair tie off. It's long overdue and once he pulls it off he lets it fall at the bottom of the tub. Sam reclines his head a little more, a small sigh escaping his lips and Dean takes a step closer, letting his hand unknot the soaked bangs. They fall silent as Dean works to untangle Sam's hair, nails grazing Sam's scalp and drawing soft sighs from Sam's lips. He keeps shuffling closer, until Sam's back touches his chest and nothing but Sam's exhales have the space to exist between their two bodies.

His hands never stop touching Sam even after the braid is just a memory. His thumbs dig in the soft parts of Sam's neck until Sam has no choice but to let his head fall back on Dean's shoulder. Hands circle a narrow waist, touch hard muscle and smooth skin. The water falls on them like it would on one body, droplets stopped when skin touches skin. Dean turns his head and drops a kiss on Sam's throat, feels the deep breaths Sam is taking as if they were his own, and in some reality maybe they are. They stay like that until the water starts to cool off, awfully soon, and then make quick use of what little warmth is left. They use the motel disposable soap, washing hair and bodies in quick efficiency and once the water goes from cool to cold, they get out and wrap themselves in white and fluffy towels.

Dean feels human again by the time he steps into a clean pair of boxer briefs, and puts on a clean shirt, not bothering with pants because he fully intends on spending most of the evening in the bed. Sam is rummaging through his bag and gets clothes out, his towel loosely tucked around his waist, and hair dripping all over the carpet. He doesn't look at Dean when he throws the little tube of aloe in Dean's general direction, and Dean catches it easily.

“Go put some of that on your nose, you're still red,” Sam mutters as he keeps digging in his bag for clothes. Dean rolls his eyes but uncaps the tube.

“Yes mom,” he says as he puts a thick blob of cream on his fingers. “Get your money ready I ordered us food,” he adds.

Just as he finishes rubbing the cream, there's a knock on their door and Sam opens to a very out of breath teenager holding two pizza boxes and a six pack in the other hand.

“How did you manage to buy beer?” Dean asks, bemused as he fetches his own wallet to add a few bills to Sam's already generous tip.

“Bro-brother owns the liquor store,” the guy answers between two labored breaths.

They give him the money and settle on the one bed to eat, eating from the boxes and drinking while Hayden Christensen does his best to save a very average movie.

The room smells of pizza and the beer isn't really cold anymore but they sit side by side on the bed and watch the movie for half an hour before Dean gets up again to ruffle through his bag.

“What are you looking for?” Sam asks and Dean suppresses a triumphant “whoop” when he finds the plastic bag.

One more second and his fingers close around his rolling paper. His lighter is in his jeans' pocket and he prays it hasn't drown with the rain. He dumps the whole thing on Sam's chest and watches as a soft smile spreads on Sam's face.

“Nice.”

Dean grins.

“Aren't I the best brother in this universe Sammy?”

Sam opens the plastic bag with the rolling paper stuck between his lips and thinks to consider it.

“There was that time when I was eight and-” Sam starts.

“Oh come on, are you still stuck on this?” Dean rolls his eyes and watches as Sam carefully rolls the weed in a perfect joint.

“I had to wear a beanie for two months,” Sam mumbles before his tongue darts out to lick the paper.

“You always wear beanies.”

“It was August,” Sam glares at him.

“Whatever,” Dean shrugs before motioning at the join once Sam twists the end, “gimme that”.

Sam complies, and once Dean puts the joint between his lips, Sam flicks the lighter on and brings it to the end of it. Dean inhales and closes his eyes as he feels the smoke fill his lungs. He and Sam smoke on occasion, never enough to crave the haze that settles around them when they exchange joints, but enough that the thick smoke feels familiar. Dean lets it curl and twirl in his lungs, barely feeling Sam's fingers plucking the joint from his, and only when he starts to get dizzy does he release the smoke in the air. It dissipates in the room, slowly, and Dean turns his head to watch Sam breathe deeply. His eyes follow the curve of Sam's lips to the tightly rolled white paper that ends with an orange dot of fire dancing in front of Dean's eyes. Sam brings his hand between them and hands the joint over to Dean, his eyes closed and lips almost closed, but not quite enough to stop a thin strip of smoke from escaping. It's mesmerizing, Sam's lips looking as soft as pillows and Dean can almost imagine how soft they would feel under his thumb. His eyes follow the curve of Sam's nose, his eyelashes, still lighter at the end and Dean is so hungry there are teeth growing in the tender place that lies between his lungs.

“Fuck, that’s good”, Sam sighs, little puffs of smoke escaping his lips.

“Yeah”, Dean answers. There’s not much else to say.

Sam turns his head and opens his stupid eyes that never seem to know what color they want to be, and for a moment, Dean sees the kid Sam was. He sees Sammy, chubby little kid too smart for his own good. He remembers sleeping with Sam, reading him bedtime stories about great heroes and promising him that one day he’d be better than all of them. Today he would say that Sam is better than all of them _combined_. Not because he's built, strong muscles ready to carry the world, but because of that grin. Of those eyes. Dean wants to poke Sam's dimples and tell him they're the reason Sam never gets in trouble. Because of those parenthesis, the frame around the most gorgeous piece of art Dean has ever seen. And here, lying in bed, Sam looks incredibly young. His face is relaxed and his body is turned toward Dean’s side of the bed, an unconscious gesture he does every time, whether they share a bed or not. It never fails to squeeze Dean’s heart a little too much. He’s not sure what it means, and not sure he wants to know.

It's unconscious, delicate like everything Sam does, and despite how big he is. There's nothing but grace in the way Sam hands the joint over, in the way his lips part a little more to let the smoke out, in the soft flutter of his eyelashes, and the way his pupils grow that much bigger. Dean ignores the way his fingers are shaking just a little as he takes the joint and brings it back to his own lips, the movements more efficient and abrupt. His hands can't hold himself the way Sam's do, can't be gentle no matter how soft his palms are. He takes a deep inhale and wonders if the smoke filling his throat will reach his heart if he breathes hard enough.

Sam is still looking at him, soft smile and it's like the whole universe is written on Dean's face, stars and planets and supernovas all hidden in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. That's how Sam is looking at him. Like faith left all the churches of this world to wrap themselves around Dean's mouth. It's terrifying. Sam opens his mouth to speak, words that Dean can’t hear, can’t because it’s too much and not enough at the same time. It's there again, that soft breeze picking up, licking Dean's body just like Sam's eyes do. It makes Dean gasps, make him swallow something heavy and sticky down his own throat, something shaped like words Dean suspects he already knows. The mystery that his brother is, pieces coming together day after day but every time Dean thinks he’s done, Sam will say something and Dean will see that he’s only finished half of the puzzle. It’s there, painted on Sam’s bottom lip that he bites nervously, in the tension that clings to his eyelashes. Sam is studying him. He's looking at him, searching for all the tiny cracks that let Dean’s love for his brother drip like blood onto the bed sheets.

Dean is not afraid of anything. Dean is terrified. So Sam closes his mouth again, and Dean lets the smoke leave his lungs. They pass the joint back and forth between them until it's just a stub Sam drops in the small ashtray that's on the bedside table. They're floating in a comfortable haze, the smell of pot thick and heavy in the room. They drink beer and watch the small tv, their attention not really on the movie but they've seen the saga enough times that it doesn't really matter. Dean doesn't realize he's dozed off until he opens his eyes and Harrison Ford is on the screen.

“Uh,” he blinks slowly, “we got to the good ones already?”

Next to him, Sam snorts and Dean turns his head to see him rolling another joint, fingers steady and sure.

“You've been out for an hour Dean.”

“Uh”

Dean blinks again, feeling still half asleep and rubbing his eyes to try to get rid of the dizziness. His mouth is full of cotton and he wonders if he's not gonna give up on this day altogether when he hears the click of a lighter next to him. A new wave of smoke fills the air and Dean lazily turns his head when he feels Sam's hand nudging his shoulder. He hadn't realized he had slithered down on the bed. Sam's hand is holding the newly lit joint and Dean wants, but on the other hand moving right now seems like way too much effort. His internal struggle must show on his face because Sam grins and shakes his head.

“You're so lazy.”

He takes another drag, and Dean watches Sam's cheeks hollow on the intake, the way it makes his cheekbones stand out even more than usual. Sam's pupils are blown wide, and as he gets closer, one hand reaching for Dean's jaw, Dean finds himself staring, transfixed. After a few seconds where Sam just waits above Dean, holding his brother's face in his palm and his mouth just inches for Dean's, Sam grins and raises his eyebrows, glancing meaningfully at Dean's mouth. Dean's brain catches up and he opens his mouth just as Sam does. His eyes slip closed and smoke rolls on his tongue. He feels Sam's breath coming with it, knows that if he were to move his head just a little forward, he would feel the softness of Sam's lips. He draws the smoke in, chases the flavor and lets it fill his lungs.

Sam draws back and Dean doesn't need to open his eyes to know that Sam's mouth is not right there anymore. He savors the taste of weed and then lets it slip past his lips, releasing it in the air. He blinks his eyes open and watches at the smoke dissipates in the room, taking away the moment and everything it could ever mean with it.

His limbs are heavy but he rolls on his side and watches the flush on Sam's cheeks, how soft and slow and real his smile his, the joy trapped in his gaze. Dean's heart is aching, to touch to hold to kiss to breathe to taste. He wants it all, and lets himself shuffle closer, until his thigh slips between Sam's legs and he can roll on top of his brother, chest to chest and grin to grin. He plucks the joint from Sam's fingers and takes a long drag himself, but he's too buzzed to pretend this is only about weed and doesn't even try to find the perfect distance between his and Sam's mouth. He kisses him, lets the smoke be trapped between their mouths and not even sighs can slip between their lips. Sam breaks the kiss quickly to blow the smoke and Dean lets his mouth fall on Sam's neck, licking and kissing him there until Sam's pants reach his ears.

“Dean, I- I need-”

Sam cuts off with a whimper when Dean bites his neck, hard, soothing the pain with his tongue as shivers make Sam tremble against him. He doesn't need to talk, not when Dean is kissing down his neck this way. Not when he’s looking at him like Sam is a blank canvas waiting for Dean’s tongue to kiss embroideries all over his body. So he doesn't speak again, and leaves Dean to tug his shirt up and kiss him all over, small nips and hard presses of lips. Bites that send flares of pain through his body but that only feel like pleasure once they've been polished against his bones on their way to his crotch. The joint is still in Dean's fingers and he hates how it incapacitates him, how his hand has to hold it when he could be touching Sam. He blindly reaches for the ashtray and hopes when he drops the joint that he didn't miscalculate. Setting fire to the room seems like a small price to pay though, when his fingertips hover above Sam's chest.

He stops kissing Sam but stays with his head buried in Sam's neck, hands touching Sam's sides, up and down, brushing each rib and smiling against Sam's sweaty skin when his brother's arms circle him, holding him there, right there.

“Dean, p-please”. It’s a pant and a sigh and a plea all at once. Dean knows, but there’s nothing he can say. Sam's shirt is tucked under his armpits and Dean's feels like a layer of blasphemy on his skin. He aches for them to be hot skin against hot skin, to trace with his tongue the outlines of the fox on Sam's arm and to feel Sam do the same with the sunflower that's tattooed on Dean's hip. He wants to tug on Sam's sweat pants and boxers, to graze the skin with his fingernails and to tease Sam mercilessly until his name is all that's left on Sam's tongue.

He breathes the smell of Sam's burning hot skin and feels Sam rolling his hips under him, slow and deliberate rolls of his hips that create a delicious friction. The pleasure pools in Dean's stomach and he can feel his own hips jerking forward, pushing down when Sam pushes up, and he gasps against Sam's neck. They're not hard, not yet, but the pleasure is running through Dean, and through Sam as well if his soft gasps are anything to go by.

They don't do this. Don't let themselves add this layer to their relationship. Because they lost their family to a fire and have been afraid of flames ever since. The sparkles that ignite between their bodies are enough to make their hands shake, to make their bellies ache with dread. What happens next? Dean wants to ask. _What happens if I slip my hand inside your pants, if I curl my fingers around your cock and stroke? What happens if I take off my briefs and settle right back here on top of you? Will there be flames if I tell you I'm in love with you? Will I scorch everything that defines you?_ The thought is maddening, enough to charge the air with a tension that wasn't there a few seconds ago. Dean doesn't know if it's only him, doesn't really care, can't do anything but give another tentative roll of his hips and feel Sam's answer against him. Each movement is words murmured in his ears. _It's okay, it's okay, Dean, it's okay._

But it's not. Dean doesn't want to have time to think, doesn't want to think about wind and fire when he's on top of his brother, hard in his underwear and high on booze and weed. It shouldn't happen like that. _It shouldn't happen at all,_ his mind corrects. Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, and Sam's movements are getting more and more lazy, his pants turning into deeps sighs, as if he can read Dean's thoughts and knows that this, whatever it is, is not meant to happen, not here and not now. The moment dies and Dean files it away with a bunch of other memories that feel like embers against his skin and hurt just the same.

Dean’s tongue pushes the sparkles back against Sam's skin. It's enough, more than, and Dean doesn't need more than that. For now. Sam must figure it out because he doesn't try to speak again. Stops moving under Dean and stills his hands in his hair. Words will wait, Sam can wait until Dean is ready to hear them. He knows his brother can lick them from his tongue if he wants to anyway. After a few minutes just breathing against Sam's skin, Dean rolls away on his back next to Sam, and he glances at his brother to make sure that they're okay. He can't afford them not to be. But Sam is already fast asleep, looking impossibly young, and Dean has no choice but to smile.

He’s never been good at translating emotions into words. He feels, and his vocal cords don’t know how to make the right sounds, the sounds that could explain everything. He doesn’t know this kind of music. Led Zeppelin, Motorhead, he can sing them all, even Sam's favorite bands, but that song, he doesn’t know it. Words are complicated. They sometime rise like bile in his throat, ready to gush from his mouth, but then he looks up and sees Sam, dimples like a frame around his mouth, his smile as beautiful as rain on the desert, and Dean forgets. The words disappear. Sometimes he tries to make him understand, and leaves marks with his nails into Sam’s skin, tattooing his feelings with the tip of his fingers, and sometimes he thinks Sam gets it. There's a red bruise on Sam's neck where Dean has been sucking the skin. It says more than a book of prayers.

Dean gets up and turns the tv off. He collects their empty bottles of beer and the greasy pizza boxes and dumps everything in the corner of the room. The rolling paper, the lighter and the bag of weed go back in his duffel. There's no way he's getting Sam's dead weight under the covers so he clears the other bed and grabs the comforter to put on him and Sam as he lays beside his brother. The lamp on the bedside table is casting a soft glow inside the room but it's still too much. Dean turns it off and enjoys the darkness that swallows them both. He doesn't know what time it is, just knows that it's four star wars and a half, so probably time to sleep.

Sam is asleep next him, and Dean opens and closes his mouth, testing the words and tasting the silence. If only Sam could understand.

_Home. My first and second choice. You._

It’s never right. He turns on his side and blindly reaches for Sam's face, his hand softly landing in Sam's hair and brushing a few strands back. There's a soft sigh but in the darkness, no one can say if it comes from him or Sam. He closes his eyes and hopes that maybe, if he's lucky, his fingers in Sam’s hair are enough. Maybe.

~

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is curled up against him, one leg between Dean's and one arm thrown across Dean's waist. It makes Dean smile, how not new this is. As a baby, Sam slept in the safe embrace of Dean's arms. As a kid, he curled up against Dean, fingers gripping Dean's shirt tightly. As a grown up, Sam throws his limbs around Dean. But Dean is still the one holding him. Maybe that's the only time of the day where Sam looks like his little brother and not some parallel sun around which Dean orbits no matter what. Asleep, that's when Sam looks young, so much younger. Dean touches his shoulders and feels the poky bones underneath the skin, smiles because they were already there ten years ago, and even before that. Twenty five years and Dean can count the days they didn't sleep together on the fingers of one hand. And realizes right there, as Sam's breath hits his neck and his hair tickles his chin, that he could never be anything but in love with his brother.

It takes his breath away, how different this is. But it's not an explosion, something that shakes the earth and breaks his heart in two. It's been here, all along, since Sam was born and since he learned how to speak and how to walk. It grew and blossomed like a flower hidden in the darkest part of Dean's heart, drinking greedily all of Sam's gazes and all of his smiles, until one dawn, in a motel room of Wyoming that reeks of weed and cold beer, its first petals opened in the morning light. Dean tries to whisper it in the quiet room but the words get stuck in his mouth. It's not that he's afraid Sam wouldn't share the sentiment. If there is one thing he is sure of, it's his brother's love for him. But being _in_ love is different. It's asking for more, more than what they already have, more than their entire lives and what already exists between them. Dean lets his hand brush Sam's hair and wonders how he can ask for more than this. He eyes the ceiling with vacant eyes and thinks that if there is a God up there and if he bothers to look down on him and Sam, he must read Dean's thoughts and bristle at the fucking _nerves_ of this boy who dares to always ask more more more.

Dean wants. He wants to hear Sam's heartbeat in his own chest. He wants to be always starving, he wants to never know what it means to be cold. He wants Sam's nails to dig into his skin and leave moonlight crescents printed like love letters all over his body. He wants to learn his brother all over, not just the places that tickle, the ones that make him smile and the ones that make his eyes darken. He needs more. He needs to know where to put his tongue, which place is the secret home of gasps, the shape of each and every one of his moles. He needs to know everything again. He already loves his brother, but he wants to learn how to be in love with him. He wants to learn and learn and learn until pieces of Sam are stuck like pieces of shrapnel in his body. The thought is dizzying and Dean watches the ceiling, the stain that look like a dog's head near the naked light bulb, the crack above the frame of the bathroom's door, and tries to ignore how perfect his fingers in Sam's hair feel.

It doesn't take long for Sam to wake up. He stirs next to Dean, his leg and his arm brushing against Dean. He blinks owlishly, hair sticking in all directions and Dean bites his lips to stop himself from blurting out something stupid. Thankfully, Sam chooses that moment to yawn in his face and Dean wrinkles his nose and remembers that Sam is also a little brat.

“Did something die in there?”

“Morning sunshine,” Sam grins and buries his head in Dean's neck again, taking deep breaths before rolling on his side and looking at the room like he's searching for something.

“Where's the breakfast?” he asks with a pout.

Dean snorts and rolls out of bed.

“Get dressed and you'll get one.”

Sam makes a pitiful noise and rubs his eyes as he yawns again. Dean puts on clean jeans and a clean shirt, and goes in the bathroom to rub some water on his face and take a piss. When he comes out, Sam is also dressed and gathering their trash.

“Ready?” Sam asks, looking somewhat still sleepy.

“Yup, let’s go”, Dean nods. He grabs his cut and put it on, the leather mostly dry after the impromptu shower from yesterday. They grab their bags and head out, Dean taking one last look at the room as they leave it, scanning the place to make sure they didn't forget anything but also smiling at how unusual the place is for revelations like the one that hit him that morning.

But it's them, it's Sam and Dean, so after all, unusual seems pretty fitting.

Sam has put their trash in the dumpster when Dean steps out, and the sky is cloudy but it's not raining anymore. It's not too hot, actually almost kind of chilly in the early morning, but it makes for perfect riding conditions. They fix their duffels on their bikes while agreeing to stop for gas on their way to breakfast and Dean, once more, bats Sam's hands away as he goes for his helmet. His hair is soft and Dean plays with it under the pretense of getting rid of the knots. Once more, he only braids one side of Sam's hair, the movements mechanic and so easy he could do it with his eyes closed. Sam is all nervous anticipation under him, now completely awake ready to go and to find a place to get a decent breakfast. Once he's done, Dean tugs on the brain, and just like every time, Sam reclines his head back, just enough for Dean to bend down and kiss him softly on the lips. Sam ends the kiss quickly, gnawing on his lips.

“Come oooon, I’m starving”, he whines.

Dean just grins.

~

The next days are spent the same way, riding through the state and stopping every time something catches their eyes. The downpour from Glendo is quickly forgotten as the summer heat comes back full force, sun beating down on them and on the roads they follow. They stop a couple hours every day at noon to avoid the worst of it and their forearms are getting more tanned with each day out. It feels good, to be far from their routine and to discover new landscapes.

They ride side by side most of the time, the roads blissfully empty, and it seems like the whole country has been put to sleep by the unforgiving summer heat. The fields are dry and begging for rain, the asphalt burning hot and melting in some places. It would be unbearable in a car, but it's manageable on a bike.

They cross the border with Utah the day after their night at the motel, sleep by the side of the road, and the day after that, reach Salt Lake City. They spend two days camping by the lake, enjoying the freedom to be able to just dive into the water when it's too hot. They relax their muscles after days spent on their bikes, enjoy each other's company and take the time to just breathe in the quiet. Nothing is waiting for them, no one knows where they are, and it feels just right. They fall asleep after stargazing every night, Dean telling stories about the stars and Sam trying to see the constellations Dean points out, failing miserably every time. It's a bit difficult with the lights of the city never too far, but they still manage.

The second night, they go swimming and Dean watches the moon casting her warm glow all over Sam's skin. Dean's own skin is too stretched over his bones, and his ribcage is too small for the wild beast that lives inside. He curls his hands into fists in the water and tries not to stare at the way Sam is swimming in the dark, at the way even the night can't bear the thought of leaving any part of Sam's skin unseen. They go to sleep curled against each other, their sleeping bags zipped together to give them more space and to allow them to share the heat. Sam falls asleep with his head on Dean's chest, Dean falls asleep with his heart in his mouth.

The shadow never leaves him, follows him like his eyes follow Sam and he wants, god he never wanted something so badly. And he knows it's only a matter of days before he caves and gives in, until he lets his hands and his mouth finish the rebellion that started in his stomach. Dean knows his life is changing as fast as the scenery around them, that his body is making room for more and that once he lets it all in, he might burst. But it's all right. He's afraid of fire, but if that's what it takes, he'll climb on the pyre himself.

Sam is smart, knows the time of the day just by looking at the sun. He reads more than anyone Dean knows, books after books like he can absorb all the knowledge of this world if he goes fast enough. He remembers things that happened years ago, details that always make Dean wonder just how good Sam memory is. He can read Dean like an open book, knows even before Dean does himself when Dean needs to go out for a drink, when he's upset about something or when he's about to say something that's gonna piss Sam off. Dean scolds his features but it doesn't matter, Sam knows, always knows.

And yet, he's also so very oblivious. He never sees when Dean's heart lurches in his throat and when Dean almost coughs it out, bloody and beating his palms, outstretched towards Sam. He never sees that Dean keeps it on his sleeve, waiting for Sam to pick it up and put it back in Dean's chest. Sam has the brain to get all the doors of this world open, but yet this one, this one he has to pick open and he seems to not know how to do it. And that's a lie, because Dean knows for a fact that Sam knows how to pick a lock open.

But it's all right, he can wait. Each morning, he wakes up before Sam and each morning, it's a little easier to be in love with his brother. They leave Salt Lake City and its bright lights on the third morning since they got there. It's been five days since they left Bobby's when they reach Nevada. The land is dry and empty, just the road as the only sign of civilization for hundreds of miles. It's a bit surreal, and Dean looks at the mountains looming in the distance and wonders if they'll ever get closer. He almost misses Glendo's downpour, cringing when he feels the black leather of his cut absorbing all the sun, the heat, and soaking his shirt with sweat.

They still ride for most of the day, only stopping to eat hotdogs and lukewarm water on a parking lot in the shade of a lonely pine tree. They nap for a little while, too close together to make the heat anything but unbearable but they don't know how to sleep apart. Sam lifts his arms and tucks them under his head and Dean can smell the sharp scent of Sam's sweat, can see through the white shirt the damp hairs of Sam's armpits. He doesn’t move away, relishes the smell the same way he relishes the one Sam sports when he comes out of the shower, when he works on his bike and get grease all over his hands, when he wakes up after a night out. Dean takes it all.

~

It takes them close to seven hours, with only a few stops for gas and some rest, and they finally stop when they reach Austin. Its name is the only thing the town share with its Texan cousin. There are maybe two hundred souls living there, half as much trees, a couple of houses lined up along the main and only street of the little town. Everything looks empty and silent. The sun still clings to the horizon, but it's quickly losing its battle with dusk. There's a small grocery shop, a bar, and that's about it, from the look of it. It's still good enough for them. They park in front of the bar and thank the heavens when they see the little sign on the boardwalk advertising chicken wings night. Maybe they'll even find a place to crash for the night.

There may be only two hundred inhabitants in Austin, but they all seem to be at the bar that evening. The place is packed to the rim, people with their families, their friends, their dates, sitting in dark red leather booths while the jukebox in the back plays classic rock songs that fill the air. Patrons are sitting on wooden stools around the counter that's in the middle of the bar, while the lonely bartender seems to be a bit overwhelmed by all the work he's faced with.

Sam and Dean make their way to him, people turning in their seats to eye the two strangers who got the crazy idea of stopping in Austin for a drink. Small towns are all the same, Dean thinks as he smiles to a young woman who's eyeing him and Sam like Christmas just came early. Long brown locks falling in waves around naked shoulders, olive skin and deep brown eyes, and Dean winks at her. She smiles black, her eyes darting from him to Sam, and when he looks at Sam he can't blame her. Under his cut, Sam's shirt is sticking to his skin, accentuating the curves of his body, the ripple of the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He's disheveled, the braid on the side of his head half destroyed, and bangs curling at the nape of his neck. Sam doesn't look like he just fell from Heaven, he looks like he just crawled out of Hell. There are sins begging to be committed on his shiny pink lips, and when his tongue darts out to lick them, Dean experiences a whole new kind of thirst.

When they make it to the counter, the bar is slightly more silent than when they first got in, but most people are going back to their drinks and ignoring Sam and Dean. People are afraid of their cuts anyway, eyeing them with glances they hope are subtle but really aren't. It doesn't matter. Dean likes it that way better. People are less tempted to be stupid when they assume – even if it's a mistake – that they're only bad boys who mean trouble. They don't really thrive under people's attention anyway, have always found themselves more at ease in the comfort of each other's gazes than under people's scrutiny.

Sam orders them two beers and two baskets of chicken wings. Their order is there barely a minute after and they manage to find a table with two seats unoccupied near the back of the bar. It's louder there, the speakers connected to the jukebox just near their table but it doesn't matter. They're so hungry they don't speak anyway, just inhaling the wings and taking a swing of their beers every once in awhile. It doesn't take them long to polish the buckets off, and they sit back in their chairs, full and content.

“Real food”, Sam says while rubbing his stomach lazily, grease making his lips even more shiny.

 

“I know”. Dean groans and takes a swing of his beer, his _fresh and cold_ beer, and moans around the lid. Sam’s eyeing him from the other side of the booth, eyes tracking the movement of Dean’s throat.

“Wanna crash here tonight?”

Dean nods.

“Might as well. I can barely feel my arms anymore.”

“Ok old man.”

Sam grins and Dean kicks him under the table.

They bob their heads to the music and play footsie under the table, like overgrown kids. It's nothing they don't do back home. Sam traps Dean's feet between his legs under the table and smirks at Dean's attempts to free himself. His brother is such a pain in the ass. Dean is about to insult Sam, just to prevent himself from doing something stupid like grabbing Sam's shirt and howling him closer so he can kiss him, but movement behind Sam catches his eyes.

And of course that's when things go wrong. Someone taps on Sam's shoulder and Dean knows even before the guy opens his mouth that whatever happens, he is dead set on putting his fist in Sam's face. Which is obviously not happening. Not in a million years. The man standing behind Sam must be close to 6'3”, his short blond hair towering above everyone else's head in the bar, but he's still smaller than Sam, Dean knows it. Tanned arms are crossed over a massive chest and the position makes the guy's biceps stand out, threats of pain that just make Dean roll his eyes.

Sam turns in his seat and eyes the tall and bulky man with raised eyebrows and a cordial smile on his lips. He looks like a golden boy and Dean can barely restrain himself from hitting Sam's shin under the table because he knows Sam is gonna mess with this guy and this is not gonna end well.

“Yes?”

The guy's frown seems carved into his face, blue eyes narrowed and lips curled downward in a cartoonish expression that Dean would laugh at if he wasn't so busy making sure Sam doesn't.

“You hit on my girlfriend, douchebag,” he growls, his breath reeking of alcohol and Sam cocks his head the side, looking at the girl Dean smiled to when they walked in, who throws them a gaze that screams _he's drunk please don't listen to him._

But Sam is a player, so he just looks back the guy and just gives him his most innocent smile.

“No I don't think I did”, he grins. “But I definitely could have”, he adds as an afterthought, sending a wink to the girl, who just looks pained.

The man narrows his eyes even more, taking at staggering step forward, and goes to speak again but Sam cuts him off before he starts,

“My brother, however...” and Dean is kicking him under the table this time.

His brother is a little shit, a fucking traitor and he's gonna pay for this. Dean's eyes scream murder, but Sam just grins at him, dimples carved into his cheeks and so happy Dean has to bite his lips to keep from smiling just as wide. It's impossible to cling to his rightful indignation when Sam is looking at him like this. His grin spills out before he can trap it behind his teeth, and they smile goofily at each other, until the guy clears his throat loudly and taps Sam back on the shoulder.

“Yes?” Sam smiles as he turns around again, and Dean sees the guy curling his hands into fists.

“I don't appreciate people hitting on my girlfriend,” he snarls, and there are more and more people stopping their conversation to eavesdrop on theirs.

“Tom, don't be a jackass,” the girl says behind him, trying to get him to stand back but she's a tiny thing and he's probably almost three times her weight so her poor attempts at getting him to let go make her look like a dove trying to lift a tree.

“Yeah Tom, don't be a jackass,” Sam adds with a smirk and it's completely unnecessary but the twinkle in Sam's eyes tells Dean that Sam is actually looking forward to a little bar brawl.

That's the kind of fun they have, and it's been a while since they didn't split their knuckles and tasted a little blood. Dean shrugs, doesn't mind putting this guy flat on his ass with two carefully aimed hits, and doing the same with the two of his buddies that have been edging closer. There's not a single doubt in his mind that he and Sam can take these guys, but he'd rather no one touches his brother, because Dean has a tendency to slightly “lose his shit,” like Sam puts it, when someone hurts Sam.

“The fuck you said?” Tom yells, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt and hauling him up.

His fist is curled in Sam's shirt but Dean jumps to his feet as if it was curled in his own.

“Take your hands off of him,” he warns slowly, low growl while Sam has lost his smile and is looking down at the hands holding his shirt.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and he sounds genuinely sad.

“Oh you're gonna be alright,” Tom hisses but Sam rolls his eyes when he answers.

“I wasn't talking to you.”

Behind them, Tom's girlfriend looks increasingly scared and her voice is shaking a little when she answers,

“It's... It's okay you didn't do anything he just... please Tom come on don't be a jerk.”

But Tom hasn't let go of Sam's shirt and Dean takes off his cut before he curls his hand around the neck of his beer bottle on the table, sees Sam's eyes tracking the movement before he looks again at the girl, a soft smile on his lips.

“No, I mean, I'm sorry my brother is gonna beat the shit out of your boyfriend,” he says gently, almost sorry and the girl gasps.

“And if you know these guys,” he adds as he gives a nod in Tom's buddies direction, “I'm sorry that they're gonna be limping back home as well.”

That's when Dean throws his beer bottle in Tom's direction. Tom is tall and built like a brick house but he has sharp reflexes and dodges to avoid getting the bottle in the face, and it's a bit surprising to see him still so quick despite how drunk he is, but it's still enough to make him stumble back, his hands letting go of Sam's shirt and allowing Sam to jump to the side. The beer bottle flies across the room to go crash on the floor and Dean hopes no one gets hurt, although frankly he doesn't care that much.

The bartender is yelling about taking this outside if they don't want him to call the cops but it's too late. People are standing from their booths, clearing the way, a few men looking like they don’t know if they trying to stop this fight is worth getting punched in the face. One of Tom's friends grabs a chair and runs towards Sam with it, holding it above his head and pushing people aside on his way. Dean doesn't have time to see if Sam manages to get out of the way because Tom's fist connects with his cheekbone just then, sending him reeling backward. His back collides with the wall and he curses himself for being too distracted to see it coming. He feels momentarily disoriented but when Tom pushes forward and goes to punch Dean again, he jumps to the side at the last second, smiling darkly when he sees and hears Tom's first collide with the wall instead of his face.

He doesn't waste time trying to see if Tom broke a finger or two though, and viciously kicks the back of Tom's knees, sending him crashing on the floor with a yelp. He puts his own knee in the small of Tom's back, digging it down when Tom tries to get up and he smirks at the wince twisting Tom's face. He takes a few seconds to make sure Sam is alright and angers uncoils in his stomach like a snake when he sees that the two guys are knocked unconscious on the floor but that Sam's lower lip is busted open, blood dripping sluggishly down his chin. Suddenly, he's almost sorry that this was so painfully easy.

He bends down and grabs a fistful of Tom's hair, lifting his head off the ground and getting closer to his ear.

“Listen to me you piece of shit,” he growls, “I'm gonna save you some more embarrassment by letting you walk out of here on your own two feet, but first you're gonna apologize.”

Tom snorts and Dean smashes his face down on the floor, fast and hard, before lifting it again and smiling when Tom groans in pain.

“Wrong answer buddy.”

“Fuck you,” the guy spits and Dean sighs. He brings Tom's head down again, hearing the satisfying crack of bones when Tom's nose breaks against the hard floor, and the sound of him wailing in pain. There's blood dripping steadily from his nose when Dean tugs on Tom's hair again.

“I didn't quite catch that,” he mutters and Tom gasps, blood pooling on the floor under his head.

“I’m sorry I hit you ok, fuck, m'sorry please.”

Dean laughs in his ear.

“I don't give a shit about your piss poor excuse of a right hook, you apologize to her.”

He tugs on Tom's hair harder and makes him look over to where his girlfriend is standing frozen, fear written all over her face but there's no mistaking the anger and shame that also shines in her wide eyes.

“I'm sorry babe,” Tom coughs around a mouthful of blood and Dean tugs sharply on his hair again before he lets him go,

“Get the fuck out of here.”

He stands up and brushes his shirt, sighing when he spots blood stains on it – this is gonna be a bitch to clean – and brings a hand to his face when another drop falls on the shirt. He only now notices the blood dripping down the side of his face, a thin rivulet cascading from his eyebrow and on his cheek. He curses and plucks the bandana he has in his back pocket, pressing it against the cut to stop the flow of blood. It's not the first time he cut his eyebrow open though and he learned early on that because it bleeds a lot doesn't mean jack shit. Tom's fist was surprisingly well aimed but there was not much strength behind it.

The girl seems to come out of her stupor and walks closer, mouthing _I'm sorry_ as she helps Tom to get to his feet. She looks mostly pissed off now and Dean has no doubt Tom is going to be sleeping on the couch for a couple of nights at the very least. Tom's buddies are blinking awake by the time Tom and her girlfriend are out, and a few people get up from their seats to help them up and out.

All in all, the fight ended with a broken beer bottle and a broken chair if the pieces of wood on the ground are anything to go by, but nothing more. Sam is smiling faintly, his tongue darting out to lick the blood dripping from his busted lip every few seconds and Dean has to look away to stop himself from reaching out and get a taste himself. The bar is still quiet, people looking at Sam and Dean like they don't know if they should throw them out or thank them for dealing with Tom's drunken antics fast and efficiently. In the end, the bartender settles it by dropping two beers on the counter and motioning Sam and Dean to come over.

“Same fucking bullshit every Saturday,” he says as shakes his head, “They had it coming”.

It seems like those were magic words because the patrons all go back to their drinks, a few cheering and raising their glasses in Sam and Dean's direction. The incident is already forgotten, the place buzzing with conversations and music, and Sam and Dean sit at the bar.

“You need something for that?” the bartender asks, nodding at Dean's hand that's still holding the bandana against his eye.

Dean starts to shake his head but Sam's hand curls around his wrist and tugs gently.

“Lemme see,” he says softly, and Dean knows there's no point arguing here.

He knows he would be all over Sam if the situations were reversed, so he drops his hand and let Sam move closer, gentle fingertips exploring his cheek and his brow.

This close, Dean can see the cut on Sam's lip, red and angry and making Sam's lips look like someone spent the last half hour kissing them. Dean has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from growling, hands curling into fists in his lap. He wants to go after those guys and beat them into a pulp, send back against their own mouths the kisses they left with their knuckles on Sam's lips. Nothing makes him angrier than seeing Sam's blood, than seeing bruises on his brother's skin, than knowing that Sam experienced even half a second of _pain._ The thought makes him clench his teeth and the pull in his jaw is enough to send a hot flare of pain on the side of his face.

He knows he's hurt, can already feel his eye swelling and he's gonna sport a pretty bruise come morning but he's had worse, judging from the pain. It's not terrible, just sharp flares of it coursing under his skin whenever Sam presses his fingers in a sensitive place. But he can feel that blood is now only sluggishly rolling down his cheek and it's only a matter of minutes before it stops bleeding completely.

Sam seems to come to the same conclusion because he pulls back and shakes his head at the bartender.

“You got some ice maybe?” he asks and Dean rolls his eyes when the bartender nods and turns around to go get some.

“I'm fine,” Dean mutters when Sam lifts his beer and presses it against Dean's cheeks, the cold seeping under his skin and making him wince.

Sam eyes him with a fond look, adoration written everywhere, happiness light, free and unguarded in his eyes. Dean swallows back and blinks, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

“So, you let the drunken guy clock you one, you're getting rusty or what?”

There's mirth in Sam's voice and Dean bats his brothers hands away, forgetting all about embers, kiss swollen lips and hunger in favor of jamming his elbow in Sam's ribs.

“Is that your new lipstick or did you get punch in the mouth?”

“Two against one, that doesn’t count!” Sam scoffs.

‘It totally does”, Dean smirks.

“Shut up.”

~

The bartender – Benny – offers them to stay in his barn to sleep that night. His house is too small, but he's willing to let Sam and Dean use it to shower and eat the next morning before they're back on the road. They both lift their brows when Benny makes the offer, not used to people being this kind and generous, especially not to people who trashed their workplace. But Benny points at their cuts and rolls up his sleeve to show the tattoo that lays on his left forearm, black motorcycle with headlights like an open mouth with fangs, ready to bite the road and drain it of its blood, mile after mile.

“This is so cool”, Sam says for the third time, eyes glued to Benny’s forearm.

“Thanks”, Benny shrugs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“No offense man”, Dean adds, “but Austin doesn’t look like it’s big enough to have its own club”.

Benny chuckles .

“Nah, you’re right. Club’s based in Reno.”

Sam dabs a napkin on his lip, the white cotton getting dots of red when the blood gets on it. “What are you doing here then?”

“Busted my knee on a run a couple years back. Stupid accident. But I can’t ride anymore. Not on a bike anyway.”

Sam and Dean both wince in sympathy, but Benny shrugs. “It’s been tough at first, not gonna lie, but I’m good now. I got the bar, crowd’s good, and this city ain’t half bad when you stick long enough. Good people.”

Dean nods, but can’t really understand how Benny didn’t go nuts without the road and his bike. He knows he would blow his brains out if something like that happened to him. His thoughts must show on his face because Benny grins.

“I’m still part of the club you know. Going to the annual gatherings, stuff like that. It’s good to see my brothers from time to time, you know? Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

“Cheers to that”, Sam nods, and the three of them clink their bottles.

Benny seems happy with his life in Austin, and he exchanges stories with Sam and Dean long after the bar's closing time.

They get to Benny's house in the middle of the night, and Benny shows them the bathroom so they can clean themselves up. Dean takes a quick shower while Sam rinses his bloody knuckles in the faucet, making sure he's not bleeding anymore. Dean rinses efficiently under the spray, getting rid of the blood caked on the side of his face but also the sweat and the dirt left by the road. Sam takes his place when Dean gets out and Dean finds himself standing in front of the mirror, only seeing the vague outline of his face in the fog obscuring the mirror. His face feels sore when he carefully touches his eye, but there's no blood on his fingertips when he pulls his hand back, so it's not that bad. He’ll just have a nice shiner for a couple days.

Once Sam is out of the shower as well and they're both dressed, Benny leads them to the barn. It's small but tidy and clean, and Sam and Dean park their bikes inside. The walls and roof are made with wood that let the moonlight seep between the uneven planks. It's warm inside but not unbearable, and it smells of dirt and dry grass. Stacks of hay are piled up in the back, tools neatly aligned on the side and small patches of grass with a few daisies are valiantly growing in the places that must get some sun through the holes in the roof a good part of the day. Benny gives them a couple of blankets and wishes them a good night, Sam and Dean thanking him once more for his hospitality. Benny brushes it off and Dean doesn't hear it all but he catches Benny muttering “Tom,” “moron,” “fucking dipshit” on his way back to his house.

They find themselves alone in the barn, and Dean pushes the door closed, not bothering to use the latch. No one will come here and if someone does anyway, they'll hear them. When he turns back around, Sam is throwing some hay on the ground to keep the cold from seeping through their skins, and he lays the blankets on top of it. Their makeshift bed looks like heaven right now and Dean pulls off his clothes, only keeping his boxer briefs on. He goes to lay on the blankets, feels the hard ground under his back but the hay helps make it more comfortable and truthfully Dean thinks he could sleep anywhere right now. He's pleasantly buzzed, his stomach is full, he has a roof above his head for the night, and things can't really get any better. But then Sam starts taking his clothes off as well, and Dean has to admit he's wrong, it can definitely get better.

“Tonight was fun”, Sam says as he puts his cut carefully on the ground.

“Yeah”. Dean’s answer is a little breathless and Sam glances at him quickly.

It's dark inside but with the clear night sky, the moon manages to give them some light. It slips between the planks of wood and illuminates patches of dirt and grass on the ground. Enough to see the play of muscles in Sam's back when he takes off his shirt, enough to cast a warm glow on the fox's body sprawled on Sam's arm, enough to let Dean see the cut in Sam's lip.

Sam absently licks it, and Dean tracks the movement of Sam's tongue, not caring about Sam's fingers popping the button of his jeans open, not looking at the way his bangs fall in front of his forehead and hide his eyes, not watching Sam shucking out of his pants. He looks at the little red line, a sharp contrast with the pink of Sam's lips, and he hopes it doesn't make too much noise when his heart jumps against his ribcage, desperately trying to burst out of his chest. But Sam doesn't seem to notice, just puts his clothes in a neat little pile on the ground, and comes back to their bed for the night, dragging one sleeping bag behind him. He lies down on his back next to Dean, their shoulders, arms and legs touching, and throws the sleeping back on top of them. It doesn't cover them both but it's warm enough that they don't really need it anyway.

Dean turns on his side and holds himself on his elbow, watching his brother's face, trying to understand what changed so much in the last couple of days that Sam seems like a whole new person. Yet he looks like he always did, dark and long eyelashes, a mole on the side of his nose, high cheekbones and smooth skin. He hasn't shaved since their night in the motel near Glendo, scruff growing slowly and darkening Sam's jaw. He's beautiful, just like he was this morning and yesterday and ten years ago. Everything is the same. Brown hair getting a little too long, even for Sam, cotton candy pink mouth and hazel eyes looking right back at Dean. Everything is different.

“You okay?” Dean asks in a whisper, glancing at Sam’s mouth.

Sam smiles, winces a little when it pulls at his mouth but it doesn’t look painful. Sam's eyes look at him, stuck to his cheek where Dean knows the bruises must show already, and Dean lifts his hand to trace Sam's lower lip with his fingertips. Sam's mouth part a little when Dean brushes the swollen cut, a warm and damp puff of air hitting Dean's finger, and he brushes the split again, and again, and one more time. Sam gasps, tentative fingers reaching towards Dean's cheek, and Dean blinks, swallows back his nerves and a lifetime of blindness for this. Just this.

“Yeah, I am.” It sounds like Sam is answering a whole different question, and Dean swallows, letting his hand rest on Sam’s neck, tips of his fingers playing in Sam’s hair. “You?”

Sam's eyes are staring at him, questioning in a more blatant way than his words ever dared to, and Dean wants to say, _yes, I’m okay. I know now. I figured it out. I know._ But the words, simple as they are, stay stuck in his throat. He swallows and feels them falling back down in his stomach, getting consumed by the embers that seem to live permanently there. Flames, wind, all the pieces fall back together and it doesn't burn when he carefully puts his lips on Sam's.

It's soft, almost too soft, but he can't ask for more. Not now, not yet. In a few weeks, maybe a month or two, once he knows what makes Sam burn, that day he will allow himself to leave hungry bites all over Sam's body. That day he will let his fingers dig bruises down Sam's sides, in the tender skin of his thigh. That day he will _demand_. But not tonight.

Tonight he needs, more more more. He's surprised his stomach isn't growling but as starved as he is for this, he will take his time. And his mouth is as light as a bird's wings against Sam. Slow and tentative, giving Sam time to think it over, to have his own epiphany if he hasn't had it already. He lets his lips move against Sam's, soft and slow, so gentle it's almost the ghost of a kiss. Sam sighs under him, whole body melting against Dean. This is it.

But soon one of Sam's hand curls in his hair and pushes Dean down, while the other settles on his hip, urging him to come closer. Dean goes with the pull of Sam's hands and rolls on top of his brother, letting their legs slot together like the pieces of a puzzle, and never breaking their kiss. He sighs in Sam's mouth, licking Sam's lower lip and not thinking about the way it catches on the cut, not thinking about the taste it leaves on his tongue. Sam opens his mouth a little and their tongues meet.

Dean doesn't remember the first time they kissed. Can't recall a time he didn't know exactly how his baby brother's lips felt against his own, doesn't know if he started or if Sam did. Perhaps there is something wrong with this, but he can't bring himself to care. Sam never had the adoring eyes of a mom looking back at him. He never learned how to ride a bike with his dad, never knew what it meant to have someone you could call mom or dad. But he always had Dean. Not just a brother, never just a brother. Dean remembers Sam catching his arm and planting a wet kiss right there, on the tender skin of the inside of his wrist. He remembers Sam trailing his lips up up up on his arm, reaching his collarbone and biting lightly at his jaw. He can still feel Sam's lips dancing at the corners of his mouth and he remembers Sam's tongue meeting his. They have spent their entire lives kissing. But this, this is new. It's not just about being brothers and loving each other. It's not just showing affection and chasing after touches.

Sam’s breathing is ragged when he gasps, “Fuck, Dean”, and there’s enough in these two words that Dean knows Sam gets it. This isn’t the first time their lips touch, but it’s definitely a first kiss.

Dean kisses Sam and hopes cobwebs will grow around their lips, that roots will bind their bodies together until winter comes. It's not love. It's so much more and Dean needs, needs everything Sam will let him have. He pushes back a little and Sam is panting under him, hands folded over Dean's back and holding him against his body. Dean bites Sam's lower lip and Sam gasps, winces at the feeling. Dean swipes his tongue across it, soothes the pain and can taste copper on his tongue.

He doesn't want to, but he needs to speak. He has to tell Sam but before he can open his mouth Sam is putting his hands on either side of his face and drags him down again, careful of not touching Dean's bruises more than he has to.

“What do you want?” is a whisper against his mouth, and Dean could laugh.

He never cared much about his needs because what he wanted was always what Sam wanted, his own content so tightly knit with Sam's that it wasn't necessary to try to separate them. His answer would always be an echo of his brother's. But right there, in that barn and when their skins are touching all over, between two kisses and heat rushing down, he knows. He wants to set fire to their insides. He wants more, he wants it all. Instead he says “you” and it means the same thing.

Sam growls and grips him tighter, lets his hands roam over Dean's back and down the curve of his spine. Dean can't think past the feeling of Sam's mouth on his, can't breathe but he doesn't want to, not now, not when he finally understands what his heart and lungs are for.

He lets his mouth drift from Sam's, peppering Sam's jaw with small kisses, closing his eyes to only feel Sam's skin, and he braces himself on his elbows, one on each side of Sam's head. He doesn't know where he wants to start, stares at Sam like he's a miracle. There's a light flush making Sam's cheeks darker in the moonlight, warm under his touch. His pupils are two pits of darkness, blown wide but still trapped by a thin circle of green and blue. A drop of sweat rolls from Sam's forehead to his ear, Dean tracking its movement and biting his tongue to stop himself from licking it. He has to look away, has to anchor himself in something other than Sam otherwise he's not sure he'll ever be able to remember his body was ever his own. He stares at the daisies that grow just next to their blanket, watches the blue veil the moonlight draped on the white petals. He blinks, once, twice, and looks back at Sam, who's smiling and puts his palm on Dean's cheek.

“It’s okay Dean, I got you”. Barely a whisper, and yet so loud.

Dean turns his head and kisses Sam's hand, hopes it's enough.

Sam seems to get it because he grips Dean a little tighter and rolls them over, puts Dean flat on his back and straddles him. They both ignore the throb in their underwear, know that this is about more than just getting off, and Sam bends down to swipe his tongue across one of Dean's nipples. Dean's back arches of the blankets and he moans, the sound loud and a betrayal of what they're doing in the silence of the night. It doesn't sound like a prayer but Dean hears his own faith in it.

“What do you want?” Sam asks again between teasing licks, fingers tips dancing down the piano keys of Dean's ribs and hips rolling in tantalizing circles against him. There's warmth spreading through Dean's entire body and his cock is leaking precome through the cotton of his underwear, leaving a wet stain on the fabric. They never went this far, never with that intent. It's everything, better than his bike between his legs and the road under his wheels. It's so much.

“More,” he gasps, and Sam traps Dean's nipple between his teeth and tugs, just a little bit, enough to make Dean lose his mind.

He uses his hand to roll the other one between his thumb and index, just this side of teasing, just this side of sinful. Sam lifts his head again and seals their lips together once more, quick, soft and so full of love Dean has to lick his lips to chase the flavor of it, Sam and beer and sweat and Sam and hay and Sam. When Sam's hands drift lower, thumbs slipping between the waistband of Dean's boxers and his skin, Dean curls his hands into fists on his sides. This is the one boundary they never crossed, but when Sam looks at him, Dean nods.

“More.”

Sam tugs a little, slowly, the friction between Dean's cock and the fabric of his underwear almost painful. Sam has to move down a little to let Dean lift his hips and then his underwear is pushed past his knees, freeing his cock that comes to rest on his hip, tip red and shiny with precome. Sam stares for a second, almost making Dean feel uncomfortable but then Sam looks at him again, the flush still firmly on his cheeks and his lips parted in awe. Dean is in love with his little brother.

“More.”

Sam lifts himself on his knees and the moonlight hits his chest, draping itself over the golden skin, dusky pink nipples and trail of hairs disappearing in the waistband of his underwear. He lowers his gaze and blushes under Dean's scrutiny, and it's almost laughable that Sam can be self-conscious. He pushes his boxers down and Dean swallows. This isn't the first time he sees Sam naked. This isn't even the first time he sees Sam hard. It is definitely the first time Sam is all of this for him, and it’s a whole different universe. Dean kicks his boxers down to free his legs and Sam chuckles, the sound obscenely childish and Dean always thought he'd go to Hell but it turns out he's been in Heaven the whole time.

Sam sits down again, lower this time, and when he bends down his face is just above Dean's cock. He raises one eyebrow, but his hand is already circling the base of Dean's cock and even if he wanted to, Dean could not ask him to stop. So he bites his lips, hands reaching down to card through Sam's hair as he speaks.

“M-more.”

The first drag of Sam's tongue on the underside of his cock has Dean's hips lifting off the ground. He groans loudly and then curses, eyes drifting closed for half a second before they snap back open to look at Sam. He’s nudging Dean's legs apart with his knee, pushing them wider until he can fit himself in between, laying on his stomach. In the darkness of the barn, Dean can only see his brother’s silhouette, can only guess the look on Sam’s face right now, and maybe it’s for the better. His hand strokes Dean once, twice, collecting precome around the head before going down with a slight twist of his wrist. It's slow, agonizingly so, but with just enough pressure to send sparkles coursing through Dean's body. He tugs at Sam's hair, doesn't know if he wants to push him away or pull him closer, and Sam takes the decision out of his hands by lowering his open mouth around Dean's cock. He swallows him down and starts to bob his head up and down, his hand following his mouth at the base of Dean's cock. Dean can't breathe, has to fight to stop himself from bucking up into the wet heat of Sam's mouth. One of Sam's hands is on his hip but it's not holding him down, just resting there and tracing patterns on his skin.

“Fuck, Sam,” is all Dean can say but it seems to be enough because Sam hums around his cock and the vibrations have Dean jerking his hips up.

Sam chokes a little and Dean pets his hair.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants when Sam looks up at him, lips wrapped against the head of his cock and tongue licking at the slit. But Sam doesn't seem to mind, and manages to grin around Dean's cock as he swallows him down again, hollowing his cheeks and not stopping when Dean's cock hits the back of his throat.

Dean has had a lot of blowjobs, knows that Sam did too, but by the looks of it, Sam has given lots of them as well. Dean has tried it himself a few times but he's nowhere near as skilled as Sam is. He's enjoyed knowing he was the one responsible for the sounds coming out of his partner's mouth but didn't find the activity more satisfying than that. Thinking of the weight of Sam's cock on his tongue however, of letting him fuck his mouth with sharp thrusts, makes his mouth water. He imagines the look on Sam's face, the perfect “o” of his mouth when he'd come down Dean's throat, the way he would hold Dean's head and just use him however he'd goddamn please. He can picture the ache in his jaw on the taste on his tongue. That, he can see the appeal of.

His eyes roll back in his head when he feels Sam's hand leaving his cock that he doesn't need to jack anymore, trailing behind his balls that he rolls in his palms a couple of times, hand trailing lower until his index brushes the puckered skin of his asshole. It’s too dry, isn’t really enjoyable at all, but Dean whines, instinctively pushes back against Sam finger and Sam chuckles around his cock.

“Well,” Sam whispers as he releases Dean's cock with an audible pop, and bring his finger to his lips, sucking it and bringing it back down between Dean's cheeks, “who would have thought...”

“Fuck you,” Dean growls and Sam circles his hole, pressing lightly but never going in.

His other hand returns to Dean's cock, stroking it harder and faster, precome and spit easing the way. He bends down to kiss Dean's stomach, nipping his way up and sucking kisses in Dean's neck. One of his knees lifts and settles on the other side of Dean's legs, allowing Sam to lower himself against Dean's thigh, trapping his cock between Dean and himself. He groans as he does it, and starts to roll his hips forward, the friction rough at first but getting smooth with each movement as Sam's precome leaks from his cock to Dean's thigh.

Heat is flooding Dean's stomach and when Sam pushes his finger in, just past the nail, Sam kisses him and swallows his moan, before burying his head on the side of Sam’s neck.

“Seems to me you're the one on the receiving end of this equation,” Sam grins against his neck and Dean tugs at his hair, satisfied when he hears Sam's gasp.

He wants to say something, wants to remind Sam that he's his little brother and by law a smartass and a pain in the ass, but he knows there's no point arguing here, knows that if only the tip of Sam's index makes him feel that way, then yes, yes, he's definitely going to let Sam do whatever he wants to him. So instead of speaking, he tugs Sam's head up and seals their lips together, moaning in his brother's mouth as he feels one of his hand stroking his cock and the other one pushing just barely inside him. It doesn't take long before he feels his balls tighten and Sam must feel it too because the movements of his hips grow erratic, pushing harder against Dean's thigh and groaning against Dean's lips.

“Sam,” he pants, clutching his brother's shoulders and feeling the familiar tingle in his toes, spreading them wide before he curls them.

“Yeah, come on Dean, come on,” Sam answers, and he twists his wrist on the upstroke, giving a firm tug on Dean's cock and crooking the tip of his finger in Dean's hole.

It's enough. Dean doesn't know if he says something, if he screams Sam's name or sighs silently. He can just feel himself arching his back off the blankets and coming harder than he ever has in his life, white ropes of come hitting his and Sam's stomachs, while Sam thrusts his own hips shallowly against Dean's thigh. He falls back against the blanket, boneless and hears Sam groaning his name as he comes, warm come hitting his stomach and mixing with his own. Sam holds himself above Dean for a couple seconds more before he falls on top of him, pushing all the air out of Dean's lungs and making him groan for a whole new reason.

“Gedoff me”, he mumbles while batting his hands ineffectively at Sam's shoulders.

“Can't move,” Sam grumbles but he moves a little to the side, keeping his head buried in Dean's neck and his entire chest on top of Dean's, but pushing his legs to keep his weight from crushing Dean too much.

“Bitch,” Dean groans. He's fast asleep when Sam mumbles back.

“Jerk.”

~

Dean wakes up the next morning with dry come on his stomach and pubic hairs. It could be gross, and kind of is, but it just makes him smile, makes him feel whole in a way he didn't realize he wasn't before. The sun is slipping through the roof and its rays hit the daisies that grow near their makeshift bed. Dean smiles. He wakes Sam up with a hand between Sam's legs and his mouth sucking kisses in his neck. There's no wind.

~

They use Benny's bathroom again before they leave, the bartender making them coffee that has Dean moaning in his mug and Sam grinning at him.

“He always like that?” Benny asks and Dean can't see him because he's too busy trying to get high on the smell of freshly brewed coffee but Sam must nod because Benny just makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to the sizzling bacon in the pan.

“Man, if you keep going like this we'll never leave,” Sam says as the smell of grease and bacon fills the kitchen.

Benny chuckles and when Dean lifts his head from his mug, he's pulling plates from a cupboard.

They get their breakfast together, talking about Sam and Dean's plans for the day and exchanging numbers with Benny. Under the table, Dean knocks his knee against Sam and Sam smiles looks at his plate. It's so easy, so comfortable, it feels like nothing changed. They're still them, still dependent on each other's touch and starving for more days to spend together. But there's something more, invisible and weightless, but something that makes Sam's knee a little softer and warmer against his own.

They make sure to let Benny know he's more than welcome to come visit in Sioux Falls if he ever feels like it, and Benny promises he'll come the next time he can close the bar for a couple days.

They go fetch their bikes in the barn after that, Dean smiling as he braids Sam's hair and finds hay stuck between the strands. He doesn't bother plucking it out, thinks he's perfectly fine with being reminded of why it ended up there in the first place. This is another memory files and folders will never mention. Moonlight kissing daisies, and stacks of hay piled up on top of each other.

“Hey, if you stop in Reno, stop on Piper Peak lane, number 12,” Benny adds as an afterthought as they're getting ready to leave, “Say hi to Lenny for me.”

“Will do,” Dean answers over the loud rumble of his engine, “Buddy of yours?”

Benny chuckles, “Yeah, could say that.”

Dean doesn't ask what that's supposed to mean and he and Sam wave as they leave Benny's house.

It takes them three hours to reach Reno, and they didn't plan on stopping there, mostly trying to avoid the big cities, but it's close to noon now and they’re getting hungry enough that the prospect of food makes them reconsider their plan. It's easy to find the address Benny gave them, small street on the outskirts of town. It is mostly empty, white sidewalk with a few trees planted here and there, and the mountains in the background. It's dry, like everything seems to be in Nevada, and Dean wonders if they'll ever see the ocean. They find number 12 easily and park in front of it.

The shop looks like nothing from the outside. The windows don't show anything but a plaque with a timesheet and just an initial. “L's ink”. Uh. Once they step inside though, they have no choice but to gape. The walls are covered with designs. Drawings in colors or black and white have been framed, taped and pinned to the walls in what Dean assumes is a logical order but only looks like chaos to him, and to Sam as well if the look on his face is anything to go by. Pin-ups stand next to a variety of skulls, while flowers grow around boats and sharks. Hearts and guns, angels and the outline of Nevada, there are hundreds if not thousands of designs. It's overwhelming when you weren't aware a second ago that you were stepping into a tattoo parlor but as least, it's the one proof if they needed any that a real artist works here. Dean is still gazing at the walls when a tall woman comes from the back of the parlor. She's wearing light blue jeans that are tight around her legs, and a white tee shirt, red bandana tied in her long brown hair in a neat bow, and she looks like an angel.

“Boys,” she greets them, her eyes traveling from Sam to Dean and shamelessly ogling them, “What can I do for you?”

“Uhm, we're uh, we're here to see Lenny?” Dean asks and like a switch has been flipped, she glares at him.

“Did Mike send you? This fucking moron didn't have anything better to do?”

Dean glances at Sam, silently asking for help because if looks could kill, he'd already be on the wrong side of the grass, but Sam just shrugs, looking a little scared himself.

“Uh no we, Benny told us that-”

“Benny?!” she shouts, cutting Dean off and expression doing another drastic shift until she's smiling so wide her cheeks must hurt.

“Yes?” Dean says slowly, not sure if Benny didn't send them into a trap because this girl seems a bit crazy.

But as soon as the word is out, she squeals and launches herself at him, frail body hitting him like a freight train and knocking the air out of his lungs. She hugs him fiercely for a couple seconds, laughing happily, and Dean awkwardly pats her on the back. He doesn't understand what's going on and neither does Sam, and the more he feels this girl squeezing him to death, the less he thinks coming here was a good idea. She lets him go after a bit, takes a steps back and turns to Sam, who looks frankly scared and shakes his head as she nods her own and then hugs him as well. Sam shoots panicked gazes at Dean and Dean almost laughs, at how someone a third of Sam's weight can make his brother look so confused and half terrified. He takes pity on him and clears his throat, getting the girl's attention and reminding her why they're here.

“So, Lenny here?”

She rolls her eyes but takes a few steps back, releasing Sam who eyes her like she's a ticking time bomb. She flips her hair behind her shoulders and sticks her hand out.

“I'm Lana, this is me you're looking for.”

Oh.

“Uh, sorry about that”, Dean says “Benny didn’t tell us much. We thought we were gonna see a guy from the club or something.”

“Yeah, that’s Benny for you. Fucker’s a pain in the ass.”

“I take it you don’t like being called Lenny?”, Sam asks, still looking a little spooked. Lana rolls her eyes.

“What kind of fucking name is that?!”

“Fair enough”, Dean admits.

They shake her hand and tell her all about seeing Benny the night before, not mentioning the bar brawl but Dean's cheek is still swollen and Sam's lip is still split open, so they probably don't even need to anyway. She asks a bit about Benny and there's enough love in her words that Dean can tell there's a story there, but one they won't get to hear. She eyes their cuts and stares at their tattoos, grabbing Dean's chin and turning his head so she can see Sam's initials on his neck, tracing the letters with her fingertips and then looking meaningfully between him and Sam. Dean would squirm under her knowing gaze if he hadn't been on the receiving end of it his entire life already. She lets him go and rolls up Sam's sleeve so she can study the fox.

“Nice,” she nods once she's done examining them, and it feels like they just passed a test they didn't know they were taking. “You guys should stay for lunch, things can get a little lonely here” she tells them, pulling salad from her small fridge before they're even agreeing to anything. They eat in the back of the parlor, small talk easy and she shows them a few of her own tattoos, Sam grabbing her wrist when she goes to take her pants off to show them the one she has on her ass. Dean likes her. He doesn't like the salad much, isn't sure what the difference is between eating this and eating grass, but he doesn't say anything. Sam probably knows what's going through his head anyway, if his smirk and the mirth in his eyes is anything to go by.

Lana talks about the motorcycle club Benny belonged to, tells them about the boys and what they do. When Dean asks if she's someone's old lady, she punches his shoulder and snorts.

“This isn't Sons of Anarchy, sugar, I'm nobody's nothing.”

Dean definitely likes her.

An hour passes and Dean starts to squirm in his chair, eager to go back on the road and to find himself alone with Sam again. This is why they're taking this trip in the first place. Seeing the Pacific is obviously the goal, but the road leading them there is just as much part of the fun. Dean wants to ride, to swallow miles and cross State borders, to get more freckles popping out on his skin if he has to, to follow his brother, anywhere. He wants to get Sam alone to tell him that, not with words but with his knees in the dirt and his hands holding Sam's hips. He's about to suggest they go back on the road but when he turns his head to ask Sam, he stops. Sam is staring at the designs that are hanging on the walls of the back room, gaze traveling from one drawing to the next, a calculating look in his eyes, and Lana is eyeing him with a knowing grin. Sam bites his lips and turns to her.

“Hey, hum, by any chance, you wouldn't have time for-”

“A quickie?” she cuts him off and winks, “Got all the time in the world for you, baby.”

Sam blushes, crimson red and he gapes at her for a few seconds, while Lana seems to thrive on his embarrassment. Dean watches the blush on Sam's cheeks and stares at the shade of pink on his ears. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss Sam now. Instead he chuckles and doesn't do anything to help Sam because he might be in love with his brother but he's still gonna make his life a living hell if he can.

“No, no I didn't mean-” Sam stutters but Lana cuts him off again.

“Oh so what, I'm not good enough for you?” she snaps, and Sam shoots panicked glances Dean's way.

“You're not gonna help me here man?”

“Nope,” Dean grins while Sam turns back to Lana who takes pity on him and laughs.

“Relax, I'm just messing with you. Do you have something in mind?”

Sam licks his lips, stopping on the cut and frowning a little. Dean can only stare, can only try to guess what Sam is thinking about. He remembers when they were little and Sam would fall asleep curled up against him, his head buried in the crook of his neck. He can see himself stepping into the tattoo parlor, sixteen and a roll of tens and twenties in his hand, asking for his brother's initials in his neck. He remembers asking Bobby to come with him when the guy refused to ink Dean without the consent of his legal guardian. The way Sam's eyes had been huge and his lips parted when Dean had come back, skin raw and pink around the two black letters. S.W. And a couple of years later, Sam was the one coming home with his brother's initials on his foot.

A shiver runs down his spine at the memory, what it felt like to see his initials there, black ink forever on Sam's skin for all the world to see. He felt invincible, felt the pull of gravity lessen, the weight of his own life suddenly meaningless. He remembers thinking, _this is who I am._

Now as Sam's lips slowly curl into a soft smile, Dean feels a familiar twist in his stomach, beast startling awake and roaring. Sam turns his head and looks at him, gaze lost somewhere between Dean's collarbone and his jaw. His voice is soft and quiet when he speaks.

“Yeah...yeah I do.”

Lana grins and stands up to clean the little table.

“Please tell me whatever it is, you want it on your ass.”

“Sorry, I was thinking a little higher,” Sam chuckles, standing up as well to help clean.

Lana sighs like it's a real tragedy, and Dean can't really blame her.

“You mind waiting outside?” Sam asks looking at him and Dean's first thought is a wild _What? No!_ but there something in Sam's gaze that tells him it's not really a question anyway. And Dean would feel affronted if he didn't know that Sam isn't asking because he doesn't want Dean there but because he wants this to be a surprise. So he nods and Sam's lips curl into a bright smile, enough to make Dean forget what was his question in the first place.

“Alright, give me five to set everything up and I'm all yours,” Lana says as she goes to the sink that's in the far corner of the room and starts washing her hands.

Dean walks back to the front of the parlor, eyes lingering on the wall and looking once more at all the designs, wondering what Sam is thinking of getting tattooed. He snorts when he sees a customized Hello Kitty's design, cat's head turned into a zombie's, and pictures Sam getting it tattooed on his skin. He's still chuckling a little when fingers curl around his wrist and tug on his arm to turn him around. Dean goes willingly and doesn't have time ask what Sam wants when Sam cups his cheeks and kisses him, soft brush of lips and silent sigh leaving Sam's mouth. It's gentle and quiet at first, Dean closing his eyes and putting his own arms around Sam's waist, pulling him closer until their hips touch and Dean has to bite back a moan.

“Hey” is a whisper against his mouth. Sam's tongue darts out to lick Dean's lower lip, sending shivers rolling down Dean's spine and making him open his mouth, letting Sam in and taking everything his brother is willing to give to him. Sam tastes like the salad they had, coke and happiness, and Dean can't get enough of it. He lets Sam's tongue lick the roof his mouth and pushes forward, crushing their lips more firmly together and rolling his hips against Sam, just once, enough to make him gasp and forget who he is for a couple of seconds, making sure nothing can get between this second and the next.

Sam growls, and pushes Dean back against the wall, until his back is colliding with the frames and makes him wince a little. He doesn't care though, not when Sam is kissing him like the sun is going down for the last time. His hands slip under Sam's shirt and press against the sweaty skin of his back, and Dean's own hands get slippery. It's intoxicating, Sam under his fingers and Sam on his tongue, but Dean knows he's been addicted his entire life, knows that Sam is the only drug he can never stop craving, no matter how hard he would try if he wanted to. He feels the first symptoms when he goes into rooms where Sam isn't, feels it in his chest, blood screaming for Sam. His legs refuse to carry him, knees locked and feet rooted to the ground. It's a miracle Dean can still force his hands to let go when his fingers touch Sam's skin. He knows it's too much, but can't bring himself to be scared that it feels like it's not enough. Kissing Sam feels better than a direct shot right in the veins on the inside of his elbow.

They're panting in each other's mouths, hands holding on to each other and breaths mingling until someone clears their throat beside them and Sam pulls back slightly, forehead resting on Dean's and hard and damp puffs of air traveling between their mouths. Dean's eyes flutter open, heart caught somewhere in his throat and maybe it's for the best that Lana interrupted them because he's not sure he wouldn't have coughed it right out of his mouth.

“Not that I wouldn't be perfectly happy to watch you guys making out for the next twenty years but I got a customer coming in an hour,” Lana says, apparently not that disturbed that two guys who share the same last name are exchanging spit in the middle of her store.

There's a flush traveling up Sam's neck and making his cheeks go pink, forcing Dean's hands to come up and touch them, warmth seeping under the skin of his calloused fingers. His hands shake a little when he brings them back down, and he wonders if it's possible to overdose on withdrawal. Sam smiles briefly, like he knows what's going on inside Dean's head, maybe he does, and steps back, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed and trying to appear smaller than he is. He's peaking at Lana through his bangs, shy and coy smile in place and he looks almost innocent, almost.

“Yeah, sorry, I'm um, I'm ready.”

He takes another step back, casting a last glance at Dean who just nods.

“I'll wait outside.”

He's a bit out of breath and there's no mistaking the smirk Lana sends his way as she drags Sam in the back room.

Stepping out feels like walking in an oven. The sun is pounding on everything and everyone, vicious and dead set on melting the earth. Dean steps into the meager shade offered by a tree valiantly trying not to go up in flames. He looks over at their bikes and groans when he sees the leather of the seats shining in the sun. It's gonna be hotter than hell to sit on there.

He walks to Sam's bike and rummages in his duffel bag, finding Sam's map and opening it to see where they are and where they have to go now. California is close, so close, and the ocean is just a fingertip away. Dean smiles to himself, thinks they could make it today if they really wanted to but being here, on the road, with Sam, is all he really wants. He's not in any hurry to park his bike and think _that's it, we made it_. He somehow imagines that seeing the waves for the first time in his life, will seem a little boring after what this trip brought him already. He spots Lake Tahoe and thinks they'll stop there for the night. Dean bites his lips thinking about the upcoming evening, thinks about how the embers in his stomach have died and how daisies have grown out of the ashes.

Sweat is rolling down his back, the black leather of his cut, trapping the heat against his skin and Dean is in desperate need of something cold, because of the heat and because of Sam. He folds the map back and tucks it in Sam's bag again. It's been only ten minutes since he walked out of Lana's tattoo parlor and Sam should be in there at least thirty more so Dean walks down the street, first aiming for the big oak he can spot in the distance and then sighing in relief when he sees a small seven eleven on the other side of the street.

He takes his time inside, shivering a little when the thin sheet of sweat covering his skin dries and leaves him cold. He grabs a bottle of water and drains half of it before he makes it to the cash register. He strolls down each aisle, spending fifteen minutes in the little store under the bored gaze of the teenager behind the counter. Dean flushes when he grabs a few more items, swallowing back a lump in his throat. It feels like surrender.

When he can't find anything else to do, he goes to pay and regretfully leaves the store. The heat greets him with greedy licks and Dean wrinkles his nose. At least when they will be riding, they will get some air. He makes it back to their bikes and is pulling the zipper on his own duffel closed when Sam steps out of the parlor, bright grin immediately knocked out when he feels the wave of heat like a slap in the face.

“All done?” Dean asks while his eyes travel up and down Sam's body, trying to find something different, trying to see through Sam's shirt and through his pants, but he sees nothing and Sam doesn't seem to be willing to help him at the moment, so Dean tamper down his frustration and tosses Sam his helmet.

“Yup” Sam grins as he catches it. Lana comes out after Sam, also frowning as she feels the temperature.

“Don't be strangers,” she calls as they start the engines, and Sam mock salutes her while Dean blows her a kiss that she snatches in the air and smacks on her ass.

They wave at her one last time and Dean goes off, moaning when he feels the hot air hitting his face.

~

They ride for two hours, and reach lake Tahoe quickly. They ride down the lakeside, and stop right at the state line between Nevada and California. It's still early in the afternoon and they spend an hour in a mostly empty shopping center, buying food and drinks and a green cooler they fill with ice before adding their meal in it. They also find a pink baseball cap with sequins glued all over it and buy it for Bobby. It makes them giggle like kids and when the cashier asks if they need to a gift wrap, Sam nods and snatches a sharpie from the counter to make sure it says “For Roberta, with love,” on the bag. They stop for gas on their way out of the small town and ride a little more, cooler precariously balanced on Sam's knees, until they find a secluded spot blissfully empty and with enough trees to grant them shade for the rest of the day.

They park their bikes and Sam takes the cooler to the edge of the water, finding a spot where he places it, adding the water's coolness to help keeping their things cold.

Dean studies Sam's face and tries to see him wince, tries to catch him touching his tattoo with his fingertips but Sam doesn't do anything, and Dean wants to ask but also thinks Sam wants him to, so he doesn't say anything. It reminds him of when they were kids and Sam would say “guess what happened?” and Dean would wait for him to keep talking but Sam would not until Dean asked. It feels the same, and Dean is not a kid anymore but he won't ask, won't cave.

They're both stubborn as mules, “true Winchesters” Bobby used to say up until Dean once answered him “We wouldn't know.”

So he doesn't ask, doesn't even know if he could get his tongue to work in this heat.

“You wanna take a swim?”, he asks, knowing that Sam can’t because wherever his tattoo is, he can’t get it in the water for too long. They both know it. But Sam yawns, and it looks genuine enough that Dean thinks Sam would have said no anyway.

“Nah, I could use a nap”

“Okay old man”, Dean grins but he fully plan on getting a little shut eye himself.

Sam just smiles, shaking his head and pecking Dean on the lips.

“You know it”.

~

They lie down in the shade and promptly fall asleep. When Dean wakes up later, Sam is sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree, reading a tattered book where half of the pages aren't glued to the cover anymore. Dean watches him for a while, taking in Sam's eyes dancing from left to right. It feels comfortable, the silence broken just by the birds.

Dean gets up and goes for a swim, feels his balls shrinking when the cold water starts to lick his thighs. He curses and is not sure he didn't imagine it but it seems like a chuckle answered him. It takes him a while but he goes fully in, swims in the transparent water and enjoys the cold. He lets the water carry his body, feels lighter than a feather and perfectly at peace. There is not a single cloud in the sky but he lays on his back anyway, lets his body float and drift lazily on the water, eyes lost in the perfect blue sky above him. He doesn't know how long he stays there, minutes melting together and it doesn't matter. They have nowhere to be. Dean thinks this is the first time he's in California, tastes the name in his mouth and smiles. They made it. He remembers Sam's finger following the road on his old map. It feels like it happened years ago when it's been barely a week.

The sun starts to set by the time he gets out of the water and dries himself off with one of Sam's shirts he plucks from his bag. Sam isn't reading anymore and throws his shoe at him when he sees what Dean's using as a towel.

“You’re a fucking asshole!”, he yells indignantly and Dean just gives him his biggest smile, big brother smile and full of shit.

Nothing's changed. He rubs some Aloe on his face, although he's starting to get a tan instead of sunburns now. His knuckles are covered with freckles, and he doesn't even want to think about how his cheeks and nose look like right now. By the look in Sam's eyes when he thinks Dean is not looking back, it's not too bad. The bruises on his cheek throb, but it's a dull pain and Dean doesn't notice it if he doesn't think about it. Tom really needs to learn how to properly punch people.

They eat their blissfully cold sandwiches, a pack of cookies and a bag of gummy bears. They rinse it all with beers and watch the sunset, full and content. They keep bumping their knees and shoulders, the skin of their arms brushing and it doesn't take long until Dean feels too hot again.

“We did it man”, Sam says as the sun is just a sliver on the horizon, the lake getting darker and darker in front of them.

“Not yet”, Dean reminds him but he knows what Sam means.

“California”

“Looks like it.”

It’s silent for a few more seconds, both of the enjoying each other’s company.

“You think Bobby misses us?”

Dean smiles.

“I’m pretty sure he’s going crazy with boredom by now.”

Sam laughs next to him, nodding.

“Yeah”

It’s ten more seconds before Dean answers.

“Yeah”

The moon is already rising when the sky is still a myriad of reds and oranges. They get up and fetch their sleeping bags, laying one on the ground and keeping one close to cover themselves with it. They brush their teeth by the lake, battling each other and trying to trip each other. Sam spits his toothpaste in the lake and flicks water at Dean as he rinses his mouth. Dean does the same. There's only one word running around in circles in Dean's mind. Home.

~

They're still standing when it happens. He hears Sam calling his name and doesn't turn around. He doesn't think he will be able to stop himself if he sees his brother. His fingers itch to touch, but he can't turn around. The memories of the previous night are still vivid in his mind, and he doesn't know what will happen now. Things are easy, things feel like they always did, but his heart beats faster in his chest whenever Sam calls his name. His stomach churns, twists almost unpleasantly. _This is what it's like to be in love_ , he thinks.

“Dean”

He hears his name being called again, and the sound of Sam's voice travels down his spine, raising goosebumps on its way. There's so much softness in those four little letters, so much faith it could be scary if Dean didn't feel the exact same way about the three letters of Sam's name. He gives in to his fingers' hunger and turns around, watches Sam close the gap between them.

The first touch of Sam's lips on his is like an electroshock. Dean gasps audibly and grips Sam's head, his hands acting on their own volition. He's not sure he could stop them even if he wanted to. He feels on edge, each sloppy kiss a ticking second on a countdown to something bigger, something he can't name but feels in his bones.

“Fuck, Dean, I need-” Sam's fingers are clumsily trying to lift Dean's shirt and pop his jeans open at the same time, and Dean stops kissing Sam just long enough to pull his shirt above his head and discard it to the side.

“Yeah, yes”, Dean gasps, “come on man”. Sam mouth is on his neck right away, sucking bruising kisses on the sweaty skin while his hands dance down Dean's side. “God, Sam”.

Dean can't think past the feeling of Sam's lips, the little nips of his teeth and the wet swipes of his tongue. He cards his fingers through Sam's hair, doesn't know if he wants to push him away or closer. Sam manages to get Dean's jeans open and his fingers pull the zipper down, enough to let Sam slip his hand in Dean's underwear and grip his cock, already half hard. Dean arches his back and groans, eyes rolling back in his head and neck falling backwards, offering more skin to Sam's lips and he makes the most of it, leaving trails of kisses on Dean's jaw and playful bites at the base of his neck.

“You-, you’re just”, Sam tries to speak between kisses, but his voice breaks on each word, syllables dripping with an hysterical despair and so much _want_ it makes Dean dizzy.

“So fucking beautiful” is growled against his collarbone, and Dean keeps thinking _Sam Sam Sam_ and hopes his hands can translate the three letters in gestures.

It seems to work because he sees hands tugging at the material of Sam's shirt before he realizes they're his own, and the sounds he hears are his own voice muttering “Off, take it off Sam.” He manages to push Sam away long enough to get him to take off his shirt, Sam's hand obscenely wet and shiny with Dean's own precome, but Dean stops breathing when his eyes zero in on Sam's ribs.

“What the-”, he manages to stutter before the words go missing. Right under his heart and on the side of his chest, the fresh tattoo stands out in sharp contrast with Sam's skin. The skin is pink and the ink shines with the last of the ointment Lana must have put on it. Dark lines cross each other in an intricate design, an uneven circle that looks like a ball of yarn except that there aren't two that are similar in width or length. The edges of the circle are fading, like the ink has been hiding under Sam's skin all along and just came to the surface thanks to Lana's needle. What Dean is staring at though, is not the circle, the knots made by the hundred of thin black lines. What he can't get his eyes to move from, is the delicate flower coming out of the circle. The stem is lost in the stack of hay, but the bulb and the petals stand proudly out of it. A daisy. Dean gulps, bites his lips and reaches with tentative fingers to touch the skin. Sam hisses a little, over sensitive skin protesting at Dean's touch, but Dean is transfixed, can't believe Sam did this.

“Do you like it?” Sam asks, voice barely above a whisper, hopeful and scared like Dean's answer might shatter the whole world if it's not the one Sam wants to hear.

Dean withdraws his hands and raises his eyes to look at Sam. He sees his own reflection in Sam's adoring gaze, gets hit by so much devotion that he wonders how he ever thought maybe Sam wouldn't love him like that. He brushes the mole next to Sam's nose with his thumb and thinks _Yes, yes, yes. I like it. I fucking love it._ He hopes his voice doesn't shake as hard as his fingers when he speaks.

“I love you,” It's soft, almost inaudible really, and not at all what Dean wanted to say.

His voice catches on the last word, a betrayal and a surrender all at once. But it's out there, hanging like dandelion seeds between them. But he looks at Sam's tattoo again, and when he speaks again, his voice carries enough faith the shake the foundations of churches and temples.

“I love you.”

Sam's eyes shine in the pale moonlight and he crushes their lips together, clutching at Dean like he's drowning and Dean's mouth is his salvation. His hands are holding Dean's cheeks, palms pressing hard and Dean's feels his bruises aching. The pain is nothing though, his own hands trail down Sam's side, until he reaches the waistband of Sam's jeans and pops the button open. Sam presses one more kiss on his lips, light as an afterthought, before they both step back and hurriedly shimmy out of their jeans and underwear. Dean looks at Sam, eyes trailing up and down his perfect body, narrow hips and wide chest. He knows what he wants, knows that maybe this is what it all leads to, the fire, the bikes, the camping trips and the Impala in Bobby's junkyard. It's all connected, like the constellations Dean likes to study so much. It's bigger than them, perhaps something Dean would call fate if he believed in these things. As it is, he just looks up to the sky and names in his head the stars he can spot. It settles his nerves and lets him breathe. When he brings his head back down, Sam is also looking up, gaze lost somewhere in the night sky and suddenly he points somewhere, tugs excitedly on Dean's wrist.

“A shooting star! Make a wish!”

Dean looks up again and smiles, coming closer until he can wrap his arms around Sam's waist and tuck his head on Sam's shoulder.

“Sam,” he whispers against his brother's neck before leaving a small kiss there.

“Yeah?”

“Did you make a wish?”

“Yes,” Sam answers, hands coming to rest on Dean's where they lay on his stomach.

“You might want to email it to American Airlines then,” Dean chuckles, nudging Sam's ear with his nose and biting the lobe gently.

“What?” Sam asks, confused and twisting in Dean's arms so he can face him.

“I'm pretty sure your shooting star took off from Sacramento and is going to land in Salt Lake City,” Dean grins, laughing when Sam shoots him an affronted look and bats his hands away, pushing him away from him.

Dean laughs even harder when Sam looks at the sky again, ready to prove Dean wrong but then resigned when his shooting star keeps going in a straight line and blinks every few seconds.

“God, you suck so fucking bad at this,” Dean cackles.

Sam glares at him and suddenly it's easier. Dean realizes that they're still them, despite the daisies and the way his mouth wants nothing more than to settle on Sam for the rest of eternity. Sam is still his little brother, still sucks at stargazing and still thinks Jet Li would beat Chuck Norris in a fight. He's still petulant and a little brat and a pain in the ass. He's perfect.

Dean comes closer, repentant pout on his face but just as Sam gives in and lets him get close enough, Dean slaps his ass, laughing out loud at Sam's indignant yelp.

“You motherfu-”

Sam launches himself at him and they fall in a tangle of limbs on the ground, wrestling and rolling on their blankets, cursing each other and grunting when they get an elbow in the ribs or a knee in the stomach. Eventually Sam pins Dean to the ground, wrists trapped in Sam's iron grip and Dean surrenders, catches his breath as Sam is looming over him.

“Alright, you win,” Dean concedes, and he's rewarded by a dazzling grin.

They stay like that for a minute, Sam's grip on his wrists loosened but Dean doesn't feel like moving. They take labored breaths and smile goofily at each other.

Sam eventually leans down and kisses Dean, once, quick and easy, “Hi.”

Dean has never felt so calm in his life, “Hi.”

He doesn't remember going to his feet and reaching for his bag. He doesn't remember digging through it and finding the lube he bought at the seven eleven in Reno. He doesn't remember tossing it at Sam as he comes back to lie down on the blanket.

He does remember the look on Sam's face and the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

There are kisses and touches, startled laughs and breathy sighs. They take their time, mapping each other’s bodies with careful flicks of their tongues and loving touches. He doesn't remember Sam pushing his index in. He doesn't remember him scissoring two fingers, stretching him wider. He doesn't remember Sam adding more lube before pushing three fingers inside him. He does remember the moment Sam's cock breaches him for the first time. There's a new sort of pain, something sharp and fast, something that fades into pleasure after a while. The only sound is his own wrecked voice calling for his brother, and Sam’s answering pants.

They fumble to find a rhythm when Sam thrusts his hips slowly, once, twice, but then Dean lifts his legs and digs his heels in the small of Sam's back, urging him with his hands and a few words to go faster, harder. It is the easiest thing in the world after that. Dean twists his hips to meet Sam on each of his thrusts. His cock is leaking on his stomach, but when he reaches with trembling fingers to finish himself off, Sam bats his hand away, taking Dean's cock in his own and stripping it hard and fast, not even getting five strokes in before Dean's back arches off the ground and he comes. Sam groans at the feeling of Dean's body clamping down on him, and his last thrusts are shallow. Through his haze, Dean feels Sam's cock pulsing inside of him and his brother falling on top of him, both of them breathless, sweaty, and happier than they've ever been.

Dean doesn't remember Sam rolling on his side. He doesn't remember Sam's cock slipping out of his body, or the small trickle of come leaking from his hole. He doesn't remember Sam using his shirt to clean Dean's stomach and spent cock. He does remember Sam pressing his lips on the inside of his thigh and murmuring, “I love you too,” before he falls asleep.

~

The next morning, Sam is shaking him awake and Dean tries to remember if California is still charging with the death penalty for murder.

“What?” he groans, trying to escape Sam's hands that keep tugging on the sleeping bag to get it away from Dean.

“Come on man wake up, we're almost there!” Sam says excitedly, and Dean doesn't understand why Sam is more excited to leave now than he was yesterday.

They haven't moved an inch since they fell asleep and Dean is very much planning on getting at least two more hours of sleep before he even considers moving. Sam peppers kisses all over Dean’s face, soft lips and he smells like mint and summer. Dean blinks and sees that he’s already dressed, already brushed his teeth, already packed their bags. Dean can feel the headache incoming.

“I'll let you steal bacon from my plate,” is a murmur against his lips.

Okay, maybe he can get up.

“You're a fucking pain in the ass,” Dean groans as he sits up and glares at Sam.

“Didn't sound like it was painful.”

Sam blows him a kiss and Dean feels a blush creeping up his neck, the memory of the previous night unfolding in front of his eyes.

He gets up silently and stretches, scratching at his stubble, he's gonna need to shave soon, and grabs a clean shirt from his bag. Sam must have expected a comeback, because he's staring at Dean when he turns around, suddenly looking unsure. Dean wants to smiles but decides to let Sam fidgeting a little longer. There's something almost poetic in the way Sam feels sure of every single one of his thoughts until they become a reality.

“Dean, we... this is good, right? Us?”

Dean gets his cut on his shoulders and ties his boots.

“Depends,”, he answers while he tucks his blanket in his duffel bag, “how much bacon are we talking about here?”

Sam's burst of laughter is sudden and unexpected.

“You're such a jerk.”

“Yeah, and you're a bitch who owes me bacon so get moving.”

Sam snorts but finishes cleaning their camping site. The sun is barely up and Dean doesn't even want to know what time it really is. He doesn't say anything though, just gets on his bike and smiles when he spots hay in Sam's braid before he puts his helmet on.

They make a quick stop at a diner where Dean thinks he gets way less bacon than he's entitled to after his early wake up call. They get back on the road immediately after, Sam's eagerness contagious. It's also easier to ride when it's still early and not too hot outside. California is not really known for its cool summers so Dean enjoys the morning ride. The fastest road to the coast is to go to San Francisco but they agree while they're having breakfast to go North of it to avoid both Sacramento and the Golden Gate City.

It takes them two bathroom stops, two blowjobs in one stall, one snack on the parking lot of a gas station, a blob of sunscreen, and eight hours. By the time they make it, it's already close to sunset. They ache everywhere and the could have done it in two days at least but despite his morning grumpiness, Dean didn’t want to wait either. And it worth it. The second they cut their engines, Dean can hear it. The waves. The ocean. Quiet, soothing, wild. This part of the land is made of hills and dry trees. There are no beaches where they stop, no safe path to the water but it doesn't matter. They’ll find a beach soon enough. This isn’t about that for now. They park their bikes by the side of the road and shuffle closer, until they're standing side by side on top of the hills. There's a little wind there, and in front of them the Pacific ocean is laid out, proud and seemingly endless. Blue for thousands of miles. Furious, proud, alive.

They did it. They made it to the ocean. The waves come and go, far below them, and the sound of them crashing against the hills is like a lullaby. Dean doesn't understand why they didn't do this before, thinks maybe it couldn't have been this perfect if they hadn't waited for the perfect moment. He's not surprised Sam's the one who decided it was. He feels fingers brushing his and turns his palm toward Sam, lets his brother intertwine their fingers. Everything is perfect, they are perfect. The ashes leave with the breeze, embers settling one last time.

Dean looks at Sam and watches the waves reflect in his brother's eyes, the happiness shining like the sun's reflection on the water. He doesn't know what they're going to do now, but he's sure they're not ready to go back to Bobby's, not just yet. Maybe they'll follow the shoreline up until the border with Canada. Maybe they'll go see the Grand Canyon. Maybe they'll go to Vegas. Sam seems to be thinking the same thing because he turns to look at Dean and smiles softly.

“Ready to go back home?”

The last rays of sunshine are casting a warm glow on the side of Sam's face, caressing the edge of his smile and trapping this moment in time. Dean takes a deep breath and knows that whatever happens, whoever they become, this moment will always exist. He wishes they could be now forever, just them right this second, wishes he could stretch it and make it last decades, but he can't. The beauty of it though, is that it doesn't matter. Because Sam will always be there, for all the sunsets of this world. Dean doesn't have to think about his answer. It tumbles from his lips and sounds like _I love you’s_ painted in the air.

“I never left.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it. Kudos and comments greatly appreciated <3


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